King of the Mark
by Ceanncait
Summary: King Eomer has to deliver a herd of horses and a feisty princess to Minas Tirith. Oh, and there's someone trying to kill him. It's all in a day's work for the King of the Mark.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: I always thought that Éomer would make a perfect romantic hero (especially now that I find he's being played in the movie by the delicious Karl Urban) and whilst browsing through the Appendices one day, I discovered a tiny note saying that he married Lothíriel, the daughter of Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth in the last year of the Third Age. That's all Tolkien says about that, bless his heart. Here's a bit of fluff about how it might have come to pass...

Disclaimer: Some of the characters and places in this story were created by JRR Tolkien. I don't own them, nor do I make any profit from their use. I am, however, eternally grateful for their loan.

Last Year of the Third Age

Gondor/Rohan Border

Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth reined in his horse beside a quick-flowing mountain stream and looked down into the valley that lay to the north, shading his eyes with a leather-gloved hand. "If we quicken our pace a little, we should meet the party from Edoras by early evening," he remarked to his squire. "Let the horses drink and then we ride on."

The squire bowed elegantly. His prince was a stickler for etiquette, even this far from the marble courts of Dol Amroth. As the boy led the first of the horses to drink, the air was shattered by an unearthly screech. A few soldiers who had not traveled with the Prince before quickly drew their weapons but the rest merely rolled their eyes and snickered at their untested companions.

For thundering up to the nervous soldiers was no enemy, only a black-maned stallion with an equally black-haired young woman clinging to his back like a burr. Her muddy skirts were hiked up above her knees giving the guardsmen a tantalizing view of shapely calves and bare, grass-stained feet. Her hair streamed behind her, snarled into wind-whipped tangles.

Still shrieking her earsplitting war cry, she shot past the small group of soldiers and wagons and splashed through the stream, soaking both squire and Prince. She guided the horse in a wide circle and finally reined him in, laughing like a loon. "Did I scare you, Tirio?" she asked the squire. He glared at her, wringing out his tunic. "Good afternoon, father," the young woman said sweetly. "You look nice and cool."

"By the Valar, Lothíriel!" bellowed the Prince, shaking water out of his soaking hair. "I should lock you up in the palace cellars!" He caught his youngest child's blue-eyed gaze and held it until she finally looked at the ground, chastised. "Think you that Queen Arwen will tolerate these escapades of yours when you become one of her ladies?"

Lothíriel muttered something under her breath. "Speak up, child!" Prince Imrahil barked.

"I said, `twas not _my_ idea to become a Queen's lady," she repeated rebelliously. "And I'm not a child..." Her stallion pranced, wanting to resume his run, and unfortunately drew the Prince's wrath.

"Did I not tell you that today, of all days, you were to choose a lady's mount?" The Prince was thoroughly disgusted. "Great thundering blazes, girl, that horse looks like he eats orcs for breakfast."

"I know. Isn't he lovely?" She looked upon the golden stallion adoringly and patted his silky neck. "The stable master had other plans for him, but I won out in the end." By which Prince Imrahil correctly assumed she had simply taken the horse when no one was looking. "Who needs to mate with those silly old fillies when you can ride with me, right my lad?" she crooned to the horse, who tossed his head and nickered.

"Lothíriel!" Prince Imrahil winced at hearing such indelicate talk from his daughter's lips. He sighed and massaged his throbbing temples wondering how his gentle, quiet wife, long dead these many years, had managed to birth such a hellion. He'd been grateful when the letter from Queen Arwen had arrived, inviting Lothíriel to spend a year at court in Minas Tirith. He had immediately agreed, hoping that his daughter would lose her tomboyish ways and acquire some polish while at court. It was quite obvious to the Prince that no man of sane mind would have her as she was and at ten and eight the time was fast approaching for her to be married.

While the Prince pondered what to do with his wayward child, another rider approached from the south at a much more sedate pace. "Annaereth!" the Prince barked, recognizing his daughter's handmaiden. "Did I not tell you to keep a strict eye on the princess today? And here she is careening about...a very hoyden in rags and tatters. What have you to say for yourself?"

The maid, Annaereth, shot Lothíriel a look of supreme irritation then bowed her head submissively. "I'm sorry, my lord Prince. I was lax in my duties." She sat her mare stiffly and held on to her reins for dear life, as if she would be thrown at any moment.

Prince Imrahil wondered again, as he had many times before, whether he had been remiss in allowing Annaereth to remain Lothíriel's maid. After all, the girls had grown up together and were more like sisters than mistress and servant. Perhaps he should have found his daughter a nice, strict governess...one that would have drilled some manners into his hopeless hoyden.

"Please, Father, don't shout. It was my fault. Mallos wanted to run, you see, and Anna is an awful...I mean, her horse hadn't the speed to keep up with him." The hoyden in question smiled winningly at her father and gave a sly wink to her handmaiden.

Prince Imrahil exhaled strongly through his nose, gathering together the rags of his patience. "When we meet the delegation from Rohan at sunset, a few hours hence," he said tightly, "I expect you to be clean and garbed like a lady, Lothíriel. Léo, the Second Marshal, is doing me a great favor by escorting you to Minas Tirith and I expect you to be a credit to me. He is a personal friend to King Éomer and I do not wish my relationship with either Marshal or King damaged. Am I understood?"

"Yes, father," replied Lothíriel, meekly enough that her father gave her a suspicious glance. "I understand."

"And Lothíriel..."

"Yes, father?"

"Trade that fire-breathing beast to one of the guards for a more suitable mount."

Lothíriel nodded obediently. "I'm certain your guards ride more ladylike mounts than Mallos, father."

"Blast it, Lothíriel, that's not what I meant..." but she had already turned the great stallion and ridden away, splashing the Prince once more in the bargain.

_**Mallos**_ is a Sindarin word that translates to "Gold-snow."


	2. Chapter 2

Last Year of the Third Age

The Stables at Meduseld, Edoras

Léo whistled softly to himself as he curried his horse. It wasn't a job he was required to do—there were plenty of stable boys at Meduseld—but he enjoyed it greatly. Roval was new to him and he hoped the extra attention would help them bond. He sorely missed Mithren who could, Léo swore, read his mind. But he knew the old horse was much happier in the pasture with sweet grass to nibble and sweet mares to keep him company.

The stables were blessedly quiet although there was plenty of commotion in the courtyard where Léo's men, the Second Mark of the Rohirrim, were preparing to ride out. It was to be an escort mission, but with a slight wrinkle. In addition to the shipment of horses for the Minas Tirith guard, the Mark would also be escorting the Princess of Dol Amroth who was traveling to visit the Queen.

Léo wished that Prince Imrahil hadn't picked this trip to request repayment for saving Léo's life during the Battle of the Pelennor. The simple mission would have given his men a much-needed chance to relax, but not with a princess along for the ride. Léo snorted. She was probably a stuffy little prude, and a snob in the bargain—his men would have to be on their best behavior the entire time.

"You've been brushing that same spot for five minutes straight, Léo. That poor horse is going to have a bald spot." Léo dropped the brush as a deep voice startled him out of his thoughts and almost right out of his skin.

"Blast it, Éo— …I mean your majesty…"

Éomer cuffed his friend on the shoulder. "Thought I'd cured you of that 'majesty' business, Léo."

Léo winced, rubbing his shoulder. "Ow…doesn't seem right to call you just plain Éomer any more. You _are_ the king, after all."

"To everyone but you, my friend." The King of the Mark settled his muscular frame against the stable wall, looking for all the world like any man in Léo's company. Well, Léo amended silently, maybe not just any man. For though he was garbed in the same rough style as Léo's men and had the same fair coloring, Éomer carried about him an air of easy authority that set him forever apart from any other Rider. It didn't hurt that he topped the tallest man in the Mark by more than half a foot either.

"So what do I owe the honor of your exalted presence O great highness?" Léo asked, earning himself another friendly cuff.

"Keep doing that and I'll tell your mother about the time you put mead in the chicken feed. Blasted things were drunk for a week," Éomer teased, but his eyes were serious.

"What is it, my friend?" Léo raked his fingers through his sandy hair, a nervous habit he'd had since boyhood and hadn't been able to conquer. It had the unfortunate effect of making his curls stand alarmingly on end.

"I'm bored, Léo."

"Bored?" Léo rolled his eyes. "Bored. By the Valar, Éomer, I thought it was something serious."

"It is serious. All these endless meetings and protocol and kingly nonsense are driving me insane. And Firefoot is getting fat from lack of exercise." Éomer rode the largest, and most famously bad-tempered steed in all of the Mark. "I need to get out of this jewel box and go for a nice, long ride before I go crazy."

"And…"

"And what?" Éomer looked injured.

"Don't give me that. There's always an 'and' with you. In fact, it usually winds up with me getting in some kind of trouble."

"All right, fine. I'm coming with you to Minas Tirith." Éomer waited for his friend's excited response and looked disappointed when it was not forthcoming. "What's the matter, Léo? You don't fancy a gallop with your King?"

"Nooo…" Léo said slowly, not wanting to offend either friend or king. "I just don't think it's a very good idea, that's all."

Éomer launched himself forward from the wall and stalked around the stall, ignoring Roval's nervous and prancing and tail swishing. "Blast it, Léo, you're starting to sound like my steward, Aldor…'it's too dangerous, majesty…you mustn't go…'" he mimicked in a squeaky voice.

"Well, it is," replied Léo, reasonably.

"Do I need to remind you that I fought in the War of the Ring, Léo? That I led the charge at the Pellenor? And routed the Easterlings at Cormallen? And…"

"All right, all right…you don't have to wave your credentials at me. I was there too, remember?" Léo held up his hands in surrender. "But the fact remains, Éomer. You're the king. And unless I've missed something more major than I care to admit, you have no heir." He threw a brightly colored saddle blanket—of his mother's fine weaving—across Roval's back.

"My sister has a son," Éomer stated flatly. "Don't force me to make it an order, Léo. I'm coming with you and that's the end of it."

"Fine, _your majesty._ But when you get killed, don't come running to me." Léo hefted his well-worn saddle onto Roval and tightened the cinches. "We ride in one hour. King or no, if you're late, we're leaving you behind."

_So, Éomer rides to Minas Tirith. How convenient. It will be much easier to remove the usurper along the road than in the guarded confines of Meduseld. I shall have to contact my allies as soon as possible and make the arrangements._

_At last, victory is within my reach. For too many years I have stood in the shadow of the great Éomer—I, who am descended from the greatest Kings of the Mark. His blood is not even pure, tainted as it is by his grandmother's Gondorian leavings._

_Yes, I will kill the kingling and emerge from his shadow at last. Then, by the Valar, the Riders of Rohan will bow to *me*._


	3. Chapter 3

Last Year of the Third Age

Gondor/Rohan Border

The party from Dol Amroth camped for the night in the foothills of the great spine of mountains that ran from Minas Tirith to Edoras and beyond. It was a pleasant place, cool and shady and forested with great stands of pines. But any quiet the Prince and his party might have found there was soon disrupted by raised voices coming from Lothíriel's tent.

"Lothíriel, they're here…do hurry!" Annaereth's voice was high and anxious.

"Just another minute! If you want me to be clean and ladylike, it's going to take a bit of doing," Lothíriel shouted back from curtained-off corner of the tent where she was washing. As soon as she emerged, Annaereth grabbed her and bundled her into a burgundy velvet gown. "Ow! Not so hard," Lothíriel complained as Annaereth pulled the laces tight.

"You won't believe what I've heard, Lothíriel!" exclaimed Annaereth as she began brushing Lothíriel's black hair. She spared a brief wish for its natural curliness; her own hair was arrow-straight and fine as a baby's.

"Blazes, Anna…you'll leave me bald! What is it, for pity's sake?"

"The King has come with them!" Annaereth twisted the thick curls into a ladylike knot at the back of Lothíriel's head and started poking pins in it to hold it in place.

"Bald. And a pincushion in the bargain," Lothíriel muttered. "Do you mean that King Aragorn has come all the way from the city?"

"Nay, the young King Éomer…King of the Mark." Annaereth surveyed her work critically and sniffed, "Hmmph. I suppose it will have to do. No one has yet managed to spin silk from sheep's wool, but I can't be faulted for trying." Years of practice made it easy to hide her envy with teasing.

"A King, hmmm? That could put a serious damper on my plans, Anna. I'm quite vexed." Lothíriel's silvery eyes took on a glitter than Annaereth knew far too well.

"What plans?" Annaereth was instantly alarmed. "What are you up to?" Though she secretly admired her mistress' high spirits, she shuddered to think what effect they might have on a foreigner unfamiliar with Lothíriel's wild ways.

"Never you mind, nosy one. Suffice it to say that if I have to spend a year of my life as a stuffy old lady in waiting, I intend to have fun on this trip, king or no king." Lothíriel swept from the tent, dragging her velvet train behind her in the dust.

Prince Imrahil looked nervously from his daughter's tent to the approaching riders and back again. Finally, when it became apparent that Lothíriel was not going to emerge in a timely fashion, he signaled to his squire for his horse and rode out to meet them. As the small group of well-ordered cavalry came in sight, he was shocked to see the troop led not by their Marshal, but by their King. Éomer had paused on a low rise and Imrahil could see that Léo was with him, along with a thin, nervous-looking man—a steward or valet, perhaps—and nine Riders.

"Hail, Éomer!" he called, cantering up to the horsemen. "What brings you this far from Meduseld, my friend?"

Éomer gripped his friend's forearm in greeting. "Hail, Imrahil! 'Tis a fine day for a gallop, is it not?"

"That it is friend. That it is." Imrahil rubbed his arm surreptitiously thinking caustically that the blond giant had certainly not lost any of his strength since becoming king. "Do you ride back to Meduseld tonight or will you stay until morning?"

Éomer laughed, a rich hearty sound that Imrahil remembered well from their fighting days. "I do not return to Meduseld at all. Once we rejoin the rest of the Mark at the foot of these mountains, I will ride with them…and your daughter…to Minas Tirith."

"Do you think that's wise, Éomer? There are rumors of raiders in the hills along the Great West Road…orcs and men," Imrahil asked worriedly. "And unless I am mistaken, no woman has yet given you an heir."

"When did keeping track of my bed-partners become everyone's favorite hobby?" Éomer sighed, exasperated. "I have been far too busy being king to dally with any woman long enough to get an heir, friend. And I am not certain it is wise to remind me of that when I will be your daughter's escort for the next sevenday." The young king's blue eyes sparkled merrily and then widened as he caught sight of something in the distance. "By the Valar," he breathed. "What a beauty!"

Imrahil glanced over his shoulder and saw Lothíriel approaching. His lips tightened as he saw that she rode Mallos, against his express orders. But since Éomer seemed so taken by her, he thought it prudent not to make an issue of it. Perhaps getting the hellion married off wouldn't be as difficult as he had feared.

Lothíriel held Mallos to a brisk trot as she approached the Riders grouped on the hill. She couldn't see clearly what they looked like, exactly, but they all seemed very large and fair. As she drew nearer, one of them broke away from the group and rode towards her.

He was by far the largest man she had ever seen. Even from horseback she could see that he would tower over most men. He wore golden armor that flashed and glittered in the evening sun and carried both a sword at his side and a long spear mounted on his horse—and what an incredible horse. The beast stood eighteen hands if he was an inch and was as golden as Mallos, but with a snowy white mane and tail. The man rode with such an easy grace that he and the horse seemed like the same creature.

For once, Lothíriel was glad she was elegantly gowned and groomed. Really, he was quite attractive; with his long golden hair and heavily muscled frame he was quite different from the dark, lithe Dol Amrothis of her homeland. She blushed faintly and tucked a stray curl behind her ear, not for the first time wishing she had Annaereth's calm poise and elegant bearing.

The man rode up to her and bowed quite elegantly from the saddle. It was a graceful gesture for such a large man, only slightly marred by the lock of blond hair that fell into his eyes. He pushed it aside with an impatient gesture. "My lady, please forgive my presumption. When I saw you, I felt I had to come and compliment you on the beauty of your horse. I've rarely seen such a magnificent animal."

Her horse? Lothíriel suppressed an urge to giggle—that would teach her to worry overmuch about her looks. "Thank you sir. That is a compliment coming from a soldier of the Mark, to be sure."

"A soldier…ah, yes. A soldier of the Mark," he smiled pleasantly.

Lothíriel smiled back. She liked this young man and his refreshingly unfussy manners. Perhaps he would be an ally during the trip to Minas Tirith. Certainly that horse of his would give Mallos fierce competition in the races she was already plotting in her mind.

"Mallos is lovely, isn't he?" she said as they rode back to where her father waited. "He was bred from your own people's sturdy stock, sir, crossed with the best racers in Gondor. He is marvelously swift and tireless."

"He is lovely, indeed." He glanced at her, and she caught a glimpse of blue eyes that sparkled with intelligence and merriment. "But how did a little maid like you come by such a great beast? Does he not frighten you?"

"Frighten me?" Lothíriel was offended enough to twitch her heels against Pasha's flanks. The horse correctly understood this to mean that he was to run as if all the forces of Mordor pursued him. She spared a glance backward and was pleasantly surprised to see the soldier right behind her. His horse was fast, but hers bore a much lighter load. She was a full length in front when they reached the group assembled on the low rise. "Nothing frightens me, sir." she sniffed haughtily as he caught up to her. He was laughing, but there was obvious respect in his eyes as well.

Just then her father rode up and Lothíriel braced herself for a scold. Her hair had fallen from its prim knot into a riot of untamed curls and her gown was more dust-colored than burgundy. He would be furious at such an unladylike display. But then she saw that he was smiling, if a bit fixedly. "I see you have made the acquaintance of King Éomer, Lothíriel. Your majesty may I present my daughter, Princess Lothíriel?"

"Princess?"

"King…? Oh, dear."

"Did you see that, Léo? By the Valar, the girl can ride! And Mallos! I need to speak to Imrahil about borrowing him for stud as soon as may be." Éomer rode beside his Marshal, headed towards the temporary camp.

"You really amuse me, Éomer." Léo laughed heartily. "You remembered the horse's name easily enough, but do you remember the girl's?" He coughed hastily, quelled by an icy glare from his king. "Ahem…I was speaking to the Princess' maid, Annaereth—a pretty little thing, I might add—and it seems the Princess has quite a reputation for playing the hellion. She will bear careful watching, Éomer."

Éomer looked ahead to where Lothíriel rode alongside her father. Her glossy dark hair tumbled about her shoulders and her musical laughter drifted along the wind. "At least you're right about that, Léo," he said to himself.


	4. Chapter 4

Last Year of the Third Age

Gondor/Rohan Border

"Are they gone yet?" Lothíriel peered into the distance, tracking the group—including her father—riding off into the rising sun. Without waiting for an answer, she began yanking open the laces of her green velvet gown.

"What are you doing?" Annaereth hissed in a whisper. "There are men all around us, Lothíriel…they'll see you."

"Don't be more of a twit than you must, Anna. There's nothing to see." She pulled the gown over her head revealing snug leather breeches and a boy's cotton tunic. "Now where did I put my boots?" She rummaged in Mallos' saddlebags and finally emerged with a pair of battered brown boots. Kicking off her embroidered slippers, she plopped down unceremoniously in the dirt and hauled the boots on.

"You cannot be serious," Annaereth protested.

"Never more so," Lothíriel answered cheerfully, pulling pins out of her hair and letting it tumble down her back. "Now if you would be so kind as to braid my hair for me, we can be on our way."

Annaereth made quick work of braiding her mistress' hair, grumbling under her breath all the while. "Can't imagine what you're thinking…surrounded by dozens of soldiers…no time to be immodest."

"Piffle," Lothíriel said, tying a red kerchief around her neck. "There is nothing at all immodest about a simple pair of breeches. Once we get to Minas Tirith, I'm going to have to be gowned and jeweled and pretend I'm a perfect little princess all the day long. So until then, I'm going to be just _me_." She was about to stuff the gown and slippers into her saddlebags, but Annaereth grabbed them and folded them neatly, stowing them in her own baggage.

"Now…I need something to stand on…" Lothíriel looked about for a stump or a rock from which she could mount Mallos, but the small clearing where they were camped was quite barren. Her father's squires were pestilential little prigs but they had their uses, especially when it came to helping her mount up. Her annoyance only increased when Annaereth hauled herself ungracefully into her saddle without any help at all. "Blast being short, anyway," she swore.

"May I lend you some assistance, your grace?" asked a deep voice from behind her. "Or perhaps find you a ladder?" Lothíriel groaned under her breath as Éomer strolled up to her, smirking faintly. He didn't wait for her answer, lacing his hands together for her to stand on.

"Thank you," Lothíriel replied, smiling fixedly up at him (up indeed—she noted that the top of her head would fit under his chin with an inch to spare). She was dreadfully embarrassed, and struggled to hide a blush as she grabbed Mallos' reins and accepted Éomer's practiced assistance. Once she was mounted he stood alongside Mallos, stroking the horse's glossy gold mane.

"I came to tell you that my scouts have reported signs of orcs in the hills west of here, your grace. I would greatly appreciate it if you would stay with the company at all times today." He fixed his dark blue eyes upon her, as if he could make her obey his polite command by strength of will alone.

But she had learned much growing up in her father's court. She smiled artlessly, "I promise I shall not go anywhere unattended, your highness."

"Just Éomer, please. 'Your highness' is overly formal for a mere trail companion, to be sure."

"Then you must call me Lothíriel. If anyone deserves to be called 'your grace' it isn't me, for certainly I am the clumsiest wretch alive!" Good grief…I'm flirting, she thought. Annaereth would be proud.

"You wouldn't know it by watching you ride. Few maidens of the Rohirrim could do better." That was high praise and she knew it. She began to remember what she had liked about the young king, before she knew of his station. He was exceedingly easy to joke with, even if his piercing blue gaze and towering stature made her a little nervous.

"Well, much as I'm enjoying your company, I need to muster the men or we will be all day getting started." He gave Mallos a parting pat and walked off towards the enclave of tents flying his banner. Then he paused as if he'd forgotten something. "Oh and Lothíriel?"

"Yes, Éomer?"

"My compliments on your riding clothes…they're most elegant, indeed." He winked at her and continued on his way, his laughter carrying back across the morning breeze.

It was cool in the mountains, but as the party rode downhill towards the Great West Road, the heat began to build. So when the scout rode up at full speed, Éomer knew immediately that something was amiss, for his men were too well trained to exhaust a horse on a hot day unless there was great need.

"Raiders, sire…we picked up their trail but a mile ahead, between us and the main troop. We'll have to either fight them or go around to the east." The scout gave his report, then dismounted and began rubbing down his overheated mount.

"We'll have to go around. We can't fight them and guard the women…" Éomer stopped abruptly, realizing that he hadn't heard a sound from either woman in far too long. Looking back, he saw that Lothíriel was gone. True to her promise she hadn't ridden off unescorted, for Annaereth was also nowhere to be seen. He swore long and colorfully and then shouted for his Marshal. "Léo! To me!"

When Léo cantered up to his side, Éomer summed up the situation tersely. "The girl is gone, and her maid with her. We've got to find them immediately—the scouts report raiders in the hills. You take half the men and look eastward. If you don't find them, circle around to the east and join the main troop. I'll take the other half and search west. Aldor," he motioned to his steward. "You ride with me." The thin man nodded, swallowing nervously.

"Your majesty…" Léo began a protest, but Éomer swiftly cut him off.

"There's no time, Léo. Any danger to my kingly person pales in comparison to what will happen to those women if they're caught. Now go!"

Éomer and his men fanned out in the western woods, looking for any sign of Lothíriel or Annaereth. Blast it all, but she couldn't have gone that far. Well, perhaps she might have if she'd been alone, he thought, but not with her maid along for the ride. Eomer had never seen such a terrible rider in all his life.

The ominous stillness of the dim forest was suddenly shattered by a woman's fearful shriek. Éomer shouted for his men and galloped off in the direction of the scream. When he found its source, he also found a scene he would never forget in all his life.

Annaereth lay motionless on a pile of leaves in a small clearing. Lothíriel, upon Mallos, stood between her maid and a mixed band of orcs and scruffy, sword-wielding men. She herself was armed with nothing more than a dagger, but the ruffians seemed reluctant to approach her fearing the horse's sharp teeth and hooves. Her eyes were wide and fearful but she sat up straight in the saddle, determined to protect her fallen friend.

Éomer wasted no more time. "Forth, Eorlingas!" he cried, brandishing his great sword and thundering into the clearing. For the space of a few heartbeats, all was chaos as the Riders cut down the few raiders not smart enough to immediately flee. Then as suddenly as it had begun, the skirmish was over. Éomer vaulted from his saddle and was at Annaereth's side in an instant, with Lothíriel just a breath behind him.

"Anna? By the Valar, girl, stop fooling around and wake up this minute!" Lothíriel's words were light, but her voice was rough and thick with unshed tears.

After an endless moment, the maid moaned softly and held her head. "What happened?"

"Those…things…surprised us and your horse spooked and threw you. Blazes, Anna, how many times have I told you…you've got to _hold on_." Lothíriel helped her maid sit up and felt over her dark head for bumps. "All is well, though…we haven't come to any serious harm."

"A blessing you don't deserve, Princess." Éomer said icily. "You both could have been killed or worse because of this little escapade. Not to mention putting my life and that of my men at risk." He expected her to defend herself, but he certainly did _not_ expect her to throw her dagger angrily into the woods and launch herself at him. She caught him off balance and sent him sprawling into the dirt, flinging herself on top of him and trying to pin him beneath her.

"What in bloody blue blazes…have you lost your mind?" Effortlessly, he flipped over, trapping her slight form beneath him. "What can you mean by this…this temper tantrum?"

"Stay down!" she hissed, pointing to a nearby tree where two black-feathered arrows quivered. "Those were meant for your head, you great oaf. I got one of them…but I think there's still another out there."

"Got one?" he was thoroughly confused.

"One of the archers, fool. Do you think I go about throwing perfectly good daggers into the forest for no reason?" She rolled her eyes exasperatedly and squirmed beneath him, trying to win free of his weight. "Do you mind? You're crushing me quite flat."

At that moment, Léo rode up followed by the few men he'd taken with him. Surveying the scene before him, he shook his head and laughed. "You've certainly picked a strange time and place for a dalliance, majesty."

Éomer gave him an evil glare and got to his feet, looking around the clearing. "There are archers about, Léo. Lothíriel claims to have killed one of them." He extended a hand to the girl and helped her to her feet.

"That she did," Léo gestured towards the edge of the clearing where a man lay on his back, sightless eyes wide to the sky and Lothíriel's dagger embedded in his throat. "Looks like you have her to thank for your life, Éomer."

"I wouldn't have to thank her for my life if she hadn't endangered it in the first place." Éomer noticed that Lothíriel looked quite pale indeed and seemed unable to take her eyes from the raider's corpse. He whistled for his horse and Firefoot came cantering over obediently. "Take the maid up with you, Léo. Her horse is long gone, and she couldn't ride alone in any case. You," he addressed Lothíriel, "will ride with me."

"I will do no such thing!" she protested angrily, tearing her eyes away from the dead man. "I am perfectly capable of riding by myself."

"And capable of endangering every man in this company with your childish pranks. Yes, Princess, I'm fully aware you _can_ ride by yourself," he replied coldly, picking her up and dumping her unceremoniously on Firefoot's back. He swung up in the saddle behind her, locking an iron arm around her waist as she struggled to get down. "But you _will_ ride with me. I want you where I can see you."

_So, Éomer has a protector. I hadn't counted on a slip of a girl being able to save a king. But it matters not. For this was just an opening gambit…a convenient opportunity to test his weaknesses. The next attempt will be at a time and place of *my* choosing. And this time, I will not fail._


	5. Chapter 5

Last Year of the Third Age

The Great West Road

The small band of horsemen rode single file down the narrow mountain path. Léo, bearing a still-dazed Annaereth before him, led the company and Éomer, along with a stonily silent Lothíriel, brought up the rear. Between them the Riders were vigilant, foregoing their usual traveling songs in favor of keeping a sharp-eyed watch on the surrounding forests.

They had ridden many miles down the twisting path before Éomer's anger began to cool. The girl had nearly cost him his life, and the horrors that would have befallen her and her maid had he not been able to rescue her made him shudder. After a time, a soft sniffle intruded on his brooding and he realized that Lothíriel was crying, though she was making every effort to hide it.

"Princess, how are you faring?" he asked politely, but she did not answer. She sniffled again and roughly dragged her sleeve across her eyes. He removed the soft kerchief from around his neck and handed it to her without a word, respectfully pretending not to notice her tears. He could feel her trembling against his chest, and felt sudden remorse at the way he had treated her.

Hellion or no, she had killed for him without hesitation—much as one of his own men might have done. Except Éomer was certain that, unlike his men, she had never killed before. The look in her eyes had told him as much. No, he thought, growing up in Dol Amroth had sheltered her from the violence that had plagued the rest of Gondor in recent years. She had spent the duration of the war safe and snug in the great castle by the sea and had no conception of the dangers lurking in the outside world.

Yet she had faced those dangers unflinchingly when they came upon her. And what had he done in return? Treated her like a wayward child incapable of even riding her own horse. He raised a gloved hand and lightly stroked her night-black curls, uncertain how she would receive his attempt to comfort her. "Hush, princess. Neither you nor Annaereth have come to any harm…nor will you as long as I am here to see to it. All is well."

"I-it seems to me that you are the one needing protection, Éomer, not I," she replied shakily. "T-those arrows were not m-meant for me."

He rolled his eyes—so much for comforting the maiden in distress—but kept his temper in check. "I'm sorry I haven't yet thanked you for what you did back there. It was most courageous."

"T-that sounds like an apology." She laughed a little, even as she dabbed at her eyes with the kerchief.

"I suppose…if it must be," he replied gruffly, not wanting the girl to think she had gained any sort of advantage over him. But his stern reply only made her laugh again, more confidently this time.

"I accept. And I will tell you the truth, Éomer…I felt far from courageous," she confided. "In fact, I was frightened nearly to death." This she said very quietly, as if something beyond her control compelled her to admit it.

The soft confession warmed his heart. "That in itself is a brave admission, princess. How did you ever learn to throw a dagger with such accuracy?" He realized then that he still held her very tightly around the waist and forced himself to relax a bit.

"That's better. If I *must* ride before you, I should like to be comfortable, at least." Freed from his iron grasp, she settled herself more securely within his arms, nestling closely against him. "My father taught me how to throw a dagger. My brothers and I used to have competitions in the training yard at Dol Amroth. I always won. And not," she added smugly, "because they let me."

At least the princess was comfortable—for Éomer suddenly was not. The last passenger he'd carried had been a battle-hardened dwarf—certainly a different experience than riding double with a sweet-smelling princess. He shifted uneasily in the saddle, for the pressure of her slight body against his was prompting a response most unsuitable for his current position—and company. He berated himself that the simple presence of a lady could make him behave like the most untested of boys. Resolutely, he forced himself to think about the endless piles of paperwork on his desk at Meduseld until he had regained some semblance of control.

They rode in silence for some time until the forest opened out onto a broad plateau. Lothíriel gasped in wonderment as she beheld the vista spread out before her. Below the mountain, fields of grass stretched far and away until they finally met the azure sky far distant in a perfect, unbroken arc. The wind coaxed the grain into rippling waves so that it seemed like a great, golden ocean. Birds darted here and there, busily feasting on insects and then disappearing completely as the fast-moving shadow of a hawk crossed over them. The great west road wound along the base of the mountains and provided a reasonably direct route between Meduseld to the west and Minas Tirith to the east.

"What do you think of my kingdom, princess?" Éomer couldn't keep the smug pride completely out of his voice as he drew Firefoot to a halt. It was worth every scrap of paper in his office to see his country spread out before him in all its fertile majesty. For the first time since ascending the throne, he realized that the demands made on him as king would always be matched by the rewards of ruling so great a land. It was his—all of it—and he loved it fiercely.

"I think you are lucky, indeed, to rule such a beautiful land, your majesty," Lothíriel replied, echoing his thoughts. "Why, a person could ride for days and never encounter any obstacle at all, Éomer," she continued, less formally. "How do you teach your horses to jump fences? I don't see any for miles around...nor any fallen trees."

"There are plenty of fences at Meduseld where most of my people dwell. But don't get any crazy ideas into your head, princess," he warned, meaning to be funny. "You won't be jumping anything for the next seven days without my express permission." The minute the words left his lips he knew he'd made a mistake.

"Yes, your majesty," she said frostily, drawing as far away from him as she could get and still stay mounted. He regretted the loss of their easy intimacy and didn't know how to bridge the chilly silence that sprang up between them. Rather than be caught saying something stupid, he simply gave his men the signal to resume riding and followed them as they continued down the mountain.


	6. Chapter 6

Last Year of the Third Age

The Great West Road

As the shadows lengthened the troop traveled more slowly. The men were tired and the horses hung their proud heads with weariness. As they drew near the place where they would rendezvous with the rest of the group headed for Minas Tirith, one of Éomer's Riders began to sing—a signal to the main company that friends approached. Before long, the entire troop had joined in the rousing chorus and even the horses seemed to draw fresh energy from the lively music.

"What do they sing about?" In Lothíriel's curiosity she conveniently forgot her vow never to speak to the king again. She shivered involuntarily from the evening chill, and tried to snuggle closer to Éomer for warmth.

Éomer, glad that the princess had chosen to break her icy silence, drew the edges of his cloak around her so that they were both cocooned in its warm folds. "It's a very old song about Éorl, a great king of my people. He sang softly to her in the common tongue:

"_See the fleet-foot host of men who sped with faces one?_

_From farmstead and from fishers cot along the banks of Bann,_

_They came with vengeance in their eyes._

_Too late, too late were they._

_For Éorl the Young went to die on the Bridge of Tûm that day._

_Up the narrow path he stepped all smiling proud and young._

_About the hemp rope on his neck the golden ringlets clung._

_There was never a tear in his blue eyes._

_Both glad and bright were they._

_And Éorl the Young went to die on the Bridge of Tûm that day._

_When he last stepped off the path, his shining pike in hand,_

_Behind him marched in grim array a stalwart, gallant band._

_Eorlingas! Eorlingas!_

_He led them to the fray._

_And Éorl the Young went to die on the Bridge of Tûm that day._

_There was never one of all our dead more bravely fell in fray,_

_Than he who marched to his death on the Bridge of Tûm that day._

_True to the last! True to the last!_

_He tread the onward way._

_And Éorl the Young went to die on the Bridge of Tûm that day."*_

His voice was quite pleasant, deep and melodious. It was clear to Lothíriel that singing was something he did often and with great enjoyment. "I heard from one of my father's soldiers that your people sing while in battle. Is there truth in that?" she asked.

"That is true, princess, though I do not know how the tradition was begun. My people are great ones for singing; perhaps an ancestor of mine found that it calmed the horses and helped the men tell friend from foe on the battlefield. I'm told it's quite intimidating." He whistled softly to Firefoot who had begun to prance impatiently. The main encampment was now visible and the horse smelled his kindred…and his supper.

A full dozen small campfires blazed merrily in the falling darkness and Lothíriel counted a dozen middle-sized tents as well. Men milled about grooming horses, carrying water, and from the smell of it, cooking dinner. Her stomach grumbled loudly, making Éomer chuckle.

"A hungry horse and a hungry maiden! I shall have to be certain you both are fed the instant we reach camp, or I fear I will be devoured." He winced as a sharp elbow caught him in the ribs. "It is likely my men will favor you with more music before they go to their beds, princess," he said, returning to their earlier topic of conversation. "Perhaps you could be persuaded to sing for them some songs from your home as well?"

Lothíriel gave a most unladylike snort. "Only if they enjoy the music of croaking frogs, Éomer, for that is what they would hear from me should I venture to sing." Then, not wishing to sound ungracious, she added, "But I will play upon my hand-drum while Annaereth sings for you, if she wishes it. 'Tis not a common instrument for a lady to play, but it neither screeches nor shrieks when I touch it so my father thought it more appropriate for me than the others I tried to learn."

She felt a rumbling deep in Éomer's chest that shortly erupted in a full-blown shout of rich laughter. "No one shall ever accuse you of vanity within my hearing, princess!" He reined Firefoot to a halt beside the largest of the silken tents. He helped Lothíriel dismount and then tossed the reins to a very young rider. "I won't insult you, Endros, by telling you how to care for him." As the boy walked away, Éomer spoke in a low voice to Lothíriel. "The boy's father is one of my advisors. I brought him into the King's company in hopes that his father would look upon me more favorably," he said candidly. "He thinks my blood is too tainted for me to be the true King."

"Tainted?" Lothíriel was curious. The Prince's court at Dol Amroth naturally seethed with intrigue, but she had not realized that the Rohirrim, who seemed on the surface to be a simple people, had their share of political strife as well.

"Indeed," he said, casually laying a large hand on the small of her back and guiding her towards the main enclave of tents. "My Grandmother was a Gondorian, you see, from Lossarnach. It raised a lot of eyebrows, and anger, in the court. Some have never forgotten it. My uncle and cousin were well-liked. They managed the malcontents well. But no one could have foreseen that they would both fall, leaving only me."

"You speak as though you were a poor substitute, indeed." Lothíriel concentrated on putting one foot before the other. The warm pressure of Éomer's hand on her back was most distracting.

"Sometimes I think I will never be even half the king my uncle was." He stopped outside a small tent flying his banner, a white horse against a field of green. "Sometimes, I don't even want to try," he said, almost to himself.

A bright fire blazed merrily in the cleared space between the tents and Aldor was supervising the preparation of supper. He had set large logs about the fire for seats. Éomer perched on one and stretched his long legs out before him, most thankful for such an attentive steward.

Lothíriel sat beside him, tugging off her boots with perfect unconcern and toasting her chilled toes in the warmth of the fire. "Being King troubles you, then." It was more a statement than question.

"I wouldn't say that," he replied. "But it is certainly something I never wanted nor expected to be. It's going to take some getting used to." He smiled at her, revealing a pair of roguish dimples that made him look suddenly much younger. "But I suppose that sounds strange to you, who were born to royalty."

"Not at all. I may have been born to it, but in case you hadn't noticed, I'm the most unlikely princess there ever was. I should have been born a sailor or a farmer or something. Annaereth should have been the princess…she's more mannerly than I could ever be." Lothíriel looked around for her maid, but did not spot her. "Speaking of Anna, I wonder where she could have gone to? I would really like to wash before dinner."

Éomer had a fairly good idea of where the maid had gone…he hadn't seen Leo since their arrival and it wasn't hard to add the two together. He had not missed the laughter and the longing glances between them as they rode together. "You must think me most ungracious, princess," he said, ignoring her protests to the contrary and getting stiffly to his feet. "Aldor?"

"Yes, my lord?" The steward materialized at his elbow, startling him. By the Valar, he would have to teach the man not to do that.

"Heat some water so that the Princess might wash, will you please? Have it taken into her tent…that one there beside mine." He extended a hand to help Lothíriel up. The hand she tucked into his was so small it was swallowed up completely in his grip. He laughed to himself, wondering again how such a tiny little thing could cause such chaos as she had earlier in the day. "Can you manage without your maid, princess, or shall I come help you bathe?" He favored her with a friendly leer.

"Don't be silly," Lothíriel tried to sound repressive, but she bubbled over with giggles. "I'm sure I can reach most of the spots myself and as for the rest, I suppose it will have to stay dirty!" With that parting comment, she walked off towards her tent barefooted, boots swinging in her hand.

"About the hemp rope on his neck the golden ringlets clung…" Lothíriel hummed to herself as she washed in the delightfully warm water. She wasn't quite sure what to make of the young king's attentions, but they were not unwelcome. It was quite refreshing to spend time with a man who seemed to be more interested in _her_ than in her position or connections.

As Lothíriel briskly rubbed herself dry, the tent flaps parted and Annaereth rushed in, breathless. "The king said you were seeking me, Lothíriel. Is aught amiss?" Her pretty face was flushed and there were bits of leaves and grass in her dark hair.

"Not with me, dear Anna," Lothíriel laughed. "It is you that look as though all the armies of Mordor are after you. Sit down and catch your breath, girl." She took up her brush and began picking stems and bits of branches from her maid's hair, being especially careful around the large knot caused by the morning's mishap. "I don't think I need ask what you've been up to. The King's Marshal, is it?"

"Mmmm," Annaereth's indistinct reply could have been assent or simple pleasure at having her hair brushed. Lothíriel couldn't be sure. It was most uncharacteristic of her maid to dally with anyone, let alone a rough-and-tumble soldier. At the court of Dol Amroth, Anna's choosiness was as much admired by the ladies as it was bemoaned by the lords.

Lothíriel felt a most unworthy surge of envy, thinking of her maid in the arms of a suitor. As a princess, she had many freedoms. She went where she pleased, and for the most part, did what she wanted. But where her maid was free to approach whatever man she might wish, such dalliances were strictly forbidden a princess. That was a stricture not even Lothíriel would break, for her honor and that of her family depended on it.

She pondered upon the few touches she had shared with Éomer and thought that, pleasurable though they had been, they certainly weren't the sort of thing likely to lead to one coming home with twigs in one's hair. Quick upon the heels of that thought followed the startling realization that she rather *wanted* to come home with twigs in her hair, provided it was the young king's actions that put them there. Unfortunately, she hadn't the foggiest notion of how to communicate her wishes to Éomer, or what he might do if he knew of them.

Sighing, she finished smoothing Anna's perfectly straight, black hair. "There. Now you are fit to be among polite company without the world knowing how you spent your afternoon." The words came more sharply than she had intended and she bit her lip, ashamed. If Anna had found someone she cared enough about to dally with, would that not be a cause of joy for a true friend?

But Anna was too perceptive to be angry with her mistress and friend. She put her arms around her lady's slender shoulders and gathered her up in a warm hug. "Don't worry, dear Lothíriel. I swear you _will_ find someone, someday who will make you happy." Anna's nimble fingers made quick work of rebraiding Lothíriel's curly mop and, since she would have nothing to do with a gown, helping her dress in a clean shirt and trousers.

"Come, my lady, let's have some supper," she said cheerfully. "And what's this I hear about you volunteering me to sing for this rabble?" Her eyes sparkled merrily as she followed her lady from the tent.

*** **The song the Riders sing is based on a traditional Irish tune called "Roddy McCorley." It has always reminded me of the Riders of Rohan, so I changed the words and used it here.


	7. Chapter 7

Last Year of the Third Age

The Great West Road

Supper that night was a merry affair. Éomer and Léo, Lothíriel and Annaereth and the nine men of Éomer's personal guard sat around the fire laughing and joking long after the meal was finished. Anna and Léo, especially, bore the brunt of the king's arch teasing, until poor Anna was so red in the face they all feared she would explode. Only Aldor and Endros held themselves apart from the merriment. Aldor was too busy bustling about filling plates and refilling cups (many, many cups) to join in the joking and Endros sat off by himself, scowling at all who came near. The rest of the riders in the camp took turns at watch, strolling by Éomer's encampment in pairs from time to time and offering their own raillery, often at their king's expense.

Lothíriel admired the casual camaraderie between the young king and his men. They seemed genuinely to care for him, and he for them. Yet his authority over them was both firmly established and never questioned. It was very different from the strict formality observed in the ranks of her father's legendary Swan Knights.

"I had no idea you were such a terrible child, Éomer," Lothíriel laughed at the latest tale of the king's childhood antics as regaled by two grizzled veterans and then promptly choked on a mouthful of wine. The king swatted her expertly between the shoulder blades, perhaps a tiny bit harder than necessary. "It seems all these men have some story to tell on you."

"Nothing compared to the tales I could tell on them, princess, if I did not fear offending your delicate ears." She arched an eyebrow at him and he laughed, holding up his hands in mock submission. "All right, perhaps they are not so delicate, but still, I will not lower myself to their level."

He was sitting beside her, frustratingly close but not touching. She had tried several times to move closer to him, but each time he moved away. She did not know if this was coincidental or not, but she felt too self-conscious to attempt any bolder overture. She glanced over at Anna and Léo, sitting side by side on a fallen log with their hands clasped in open view of everyone, and felt her stomach twist in a tight knot of jealousy until she could stand it no longer. Jumping up, she grabbed her maid's free hand and hauled her up from her seat, "Come, Anna," she said, forcing herself to sound merry, "We promised these men a song, did we not? Fetch my drum from the tent, would you?" Her cheeks burned and she was sure that Anna saw right through her ruse, but thankfully the maid only teased back.

"I made no such a promise, 'Thíri, you did. I am sorely tempted to make you carry it out yourself, but I have too much pity on these kind men." Anna cast a fond glance at Léo before disappearing into the small silken tent.

Éomer, meanwhile watched the byplay with no small interest, glad that she had risen from her seat so close to him. He was trying manfully to control his desires but a full day of riding with her slender body pressed against him, followed by several cups of wine and her continued presence by his side was making it most difficult. He had reached the point where even the slightest of her touches was driving him slightly crazy and he had had to move away from her several times, lest she feel the heat radiating from him and realize its cause. He longed to simply take her in his arms and kiss her until she was senseless (among other things), but one did not simply attack a princess in such a base fashion. He wished that he had at least sought her father's permission to court her, but the thought had not yet occurred to him before he parted company with Imrahil. He groaned softly, wondering how he would survive the next six days in her company without going mad with frustration.

"What's the matter, your highness?" Léo teased. "Too much wine?" Éomer glared evilly at his Marshal, whom he knew understood precisely the cause of Éomer's frustration. He was about to respond in kind when Anna re-emerged from the tent with a large, round case made of hide and handed it to Lothíriel.

Sitting down beside her maid, Lothíriel drew forth a most unusual instrument from the case. It consisted of a willow-wood frame with a sturdy crosspiece attached to the back. A hide was stretched across the frame, fastened down by brass rivets all around the circle. Lothíriel fished around in the case and pulled out a small mallet and, placing her hand flat on the hide behind the crosspiece, tapped it experimentally against the drum.

Éomer could feel its deep, rolling rumble vibrating within him all the way from his head to his heels. Something was vaguely familiar about the sound, but before he could place it, Léo exclaimed, "I know that sound! The Swan Knights always had with them a drummer who played upon just such an instrument."

Lothíriel smiled. "Our knights use it to frighten their enemies, Léo, much like your men singing as they do battle." She tapped out an intricate rhythm that set everyone's feet to tapping. "But our sailors use it to accompany their shanty songs—a much more entertaining use, to my mind. Anna, what shall we give them?" she asked, continuing to play.

"Not that one, 'Thíri," said Anna, blushing. "We're not even supposed to know that one." Of course nothing would do then, but for the men to hear it and finally after much teasing and pleading, Anna began singing:

_Though the night be dark as dungeons, not a star to be seen above_

_I will be guided without a stumble into the arms of me only love_

_I went up to her bedroom window, kneeling gently upon a stone_

_I rapped on her bedroom window - "My darling dear, do you lie alone?"_

_I'm a rover, seldom sober_

_I'm a rover of high degree_

_And when I'm drinking, I'm always thinking_

_How to gain my love's company_

_She opened the door with the greatest pleasure, she opened the door and she let me in_

_We both shook hands and embraced each other and 'til the morning we lay as one_

_"Well now me love, I must go and leave you; though the mountains be high above_

_Well I will climb them with greater pleasure that I've been with me only love"_

Anna repeated the chorus amid good-natured wolf-whistles and catcalls, her face crimson in the firelight. Léo was laughing uproariously at her discomfiture and demanded to know where two such gently bred ladies had learned such a song. "Down on the docks of Belfalas, where else?" she answered tartly. "You should know by now of my lady's habit of dragging me to places I've no business visiting." Then it was Lothíriel's turn to blush.

Éomer chose that moment to excuse himself, saying he wanted to make a last check of the encampment before going to his bed. Lothíriel watched him go, wishing she dared follow him. When she turned her attention back to the fire, she saw that one of the men produced a wooden flute and was playing a sprightly dancing tune. Of course Léo immediately claimed Anna for a dance, leaving the rest of the men to glance awkwardly at Lothíriel, clearly too intimidated by her position to do the same. She decided to save everyone the embarrassment of her presence and excused herself in a husky voice.

She did not immediately seek the solace of her tent, however. Instead, she walked along the edge of the stream by which they were camped, following it into a small copse of woods. It was a pretty spot in the moonlight, near enough that she could hear the merry music, but secluded enough that no one would notice the hot tears that she angrily dashed from her eyes. It was most ridiculous indeed. Why, in her whole childhood she hadn't cried so much as she had in this one day alone. It wasn't as if she'd even wanted to dance with any of those men.

What she wanted, she admitted to herself, was to be someone different entirely. Being a princess meant that men were either intimidated by her, or wanted her only for the power her position would bestow upon them. She longed to be a woman who could dance with a lover in the moonlight…who could twine hands with him in view of all who cared to look…who could lie with him amid the endless fields of grass. That the lover Lothíriel's imagination created strongly resembled Éomer made her sadder and angrier still.

Éomer paced angrily along the path downstream, heading in the direction that Léo said Lothíriel had gone. Blast the girl, anyway. Had she learned nothing from her experiences of the morning? What could she be thinking to wander off in the middle of the night? He was so worried by the time he found her in the grove of trees, he spoke to her much more sharply than he intended. "Lothíriel!," he snapped. "I distinctly remember saying that you should not wander off alone. Did you not hear my orders or do you simply delight in ignoring them?"

She had been sitting with her back to a great tree, arms wrapped around her knees, but the menace in his voice startled her to her feet. "Who do you think you are, storming about like that?" she demanded. "You scared me half to death."

"I _think_ I am the King of the Rohirrim. I _think_ that I am the leader of this expedition. And I _know_ that if you do not begin to stay where I bid you, I shall tether you to me until we reach Minas Tirith." Éomer advanced upon her with each statement until he loomed over her like an avenging dragon.

"You wouldn't dare," she hissed. She turned her back upon him, as if to walk away, and his anger boiled over. How dare she behave so disrespectfully when he was only concerned for her welfare? He stalked after and grabbed her, turning her around to face him and intending to give her a very large piece of his mind. But when he saw the marks of fresh tears upon her face, he hesitated.

One of the very few memories Éomer had of his mother was of the tears standing in her great blue eyes when she had learned of his father's death. Nothing was more certain to touch the sensitive soul he hid so well than the sight of a woman in tears. Thankfully, it wasn't something that happened often, for women of the Rohirrim did not cry easily, up to and most certainly including his sister, Éowyn. Still, when it did happen, he always felt obligated to do whatever he could to make those tears cease.

Unfortunately, in this case he hadn't the slightest idea where to begin. But as he stood there feeling ridiculous, holding the princess by the shoulders, the answer drifted to him across the evening breeze. Someone had brought out a fiddle and played upon it one of the sweetest melodies he'd had the pleasure of hearing in a long time. The gentle tune, in three-quarter time, gave him the perfect opportunity to make peace.

"I _think_," he said in a much softer tone, "that you stole away before I could dance with you."

"Dance with you…" she repeated in a whisper, confusion at his sudden change of mood reflected in her eyes.

"Yes, princess. I was very disappointed to find you gone. Will you not share a dance with me before we go to our beds?" He held out his arms invitingly and was amazed to see that Lothíriel, the hellion who had killed his would-be assassin without batting an eyelash, suddenly looked shy as she stepped into the circle of his arms.

Her awkwardness as he guided her through the simple, swaying steps surprised him until he remembered the stately court dances he'd watched during a stay in Dol Amroth as a younger man. He realized that she had probably never danced so closely with a man before this and he candidly admitted to himself that he was most pleased to be the first.

When the poignant tune finally came to an end, he did not let her go but leaned down and placed an impulsive kiss upon her lips. He'd meant it to be only friendly, he told himself later, really, he had. But he hadn't counted on his hellion for she not only accepted his kiss, she returned it with a passion. Rising up upon her toes, she wound her fingers through his golden hair and tried to pull him closer, but only succeeded in knocking him off-balance so that they both went sprawling into a pile of leaves.

He told himself he should stop…that it would be dishonorable to continue. But she tasted of wine and honey and her lips were as soft as he'd daydreamed about during the long day's ride. As he kissed her, he became aware that she was touching him with gentle inexperience, running her palms lightly over his shoulders and back. The feathery touch was driving him mad and he knew if he didn't stop her that he would be unable to control himself any further. So for the second time that day, he trapped her body beneath his, grabbing both her hands in one of his so that he might exercise at least a little control over the situation.

Lowering his hungry mouth to hers once again, Éomer allowed the tip of his tongue to caress Lothíriel's lower lip. Her resulting gasp of shocked desire inflamed his desire even as it instantly cooled his head. This was not any woman he held beneath him, but a princess. She deserved better than a tumble in the woods, especially as he was quite certain that she had never engaged in such activities before this.

With great effort, he tore his mouth from hers and looked down upon her. The sight of her lying there on a bed of ferns and leaves with her dark curls unbound about her and her fine, dark eyes half-lidded with desire almost did him in. Almost. Reluctantly, he got to his feet and, not trusting himself to say more, muttered only, "I'm sorry, princess," before he melted away into the forest.

Lothíriel picked herself up from the forest floor and made her way slowly back to her tent, shaking with repressed desire. Her head swam with a thousand unanswered questions as she undressed and climbed into bed. Why had Éomer been so angry? And why then, had he become so suddenly gentle? And why, by the Valar, had he stopped just when things were getting interesting?

As she laid her head on the pillow, something sharp poked her in the back of the head. Fumbling in the dark, she fetched it forward and smiled when she realized what she had just pulled from her hair. A twig.

*The song that Anna sings is called "I'm a Rover" and it's a traditional Irish song (might be traditional Newfoundland, I'm not sure). You can find it on the CD "Turn" by Great Big Sea, among other places.

*The fiddle piece is a traditional as well, called Ashokan Farewell. It was written in 1982 by a musician named Jay Ungar and most famously used as the theme for the wonderful Ken Burns documentary on the Civil War.


	8. Chapter 8

Last Year of the Third Age

The Great West Road

The next day—the party's second on the road to Minas Tirith—dawned hot and muggy. The road turned slightly east and ran for many miles through a section of lowlands with pools of standing water and streams that the summer heat had left shallow and murky. The horses' tails were perpetually in motion and their ears twitched constantly to ward off the swarming mosquitoes and gnats. Their riders, unequipped with such built-in insect protection, were not so lucky. Muffled curses and the sharp sound of palms striking exposed skin could be heard up and down the line of cavalry as men and maids alike slapped at the pesky insects.

After a hasty noon meal the troop plodded on, tired, hot and eager to reach higher ground. There was no singing or laughing banter and each man seemed content with the company of his own thoughts. But several of the travelers had much more on their minds than relief from the heat and bugs.

Éomer led the men two abreast along the road and while he was alert to danger, as always, his mind also dwelled upon the intertwined problems of Lothíriel and finding a queen for his kingdom. He'd thought all night long about sending a messenger to Prince Imrahil, and if he'd still been only the Third Marshal of the Mark, he would have. There was the problem in a neat bundle-he was no longer Marshal, but King. And did a King not owe it to his people to bring them a queen who would rule them wisely and responsibly? He had not seen much in the way of wise or responsible behavior from Lothíriel.

So, after much soul-searching, he had not sent the messenger after all. When the troop set out, he had reluctantly ordered her to ride in the middle of the column so that he wouldn't be tempted by her presence at his side. Her look of hurt surprise had almost made him falter in his resolve, but he reminded himself again that in this he must behave as a king, not a man, and he held firm. It would be better for them both not to give the girl false hopes.

But as he glanced back along the dusty road, checking the line of riders for any signs of trouble, he allowed his eyes to rest for a long moment on Lothíriel. She was engaged in whacking at a very irritated Anna with a bug-swatter improvised from a handful of long marsh grass. A ridiculous, wide-brimmed hat shaded her freckled nose from the burning sun. Her hair was bound into plaits that hung nearly to her waist, but stray curls escaped every which way, clinging to her damp brow and cheeks. Her breeches and boy's tunic were smudged with dust. In Éomer's eyes, Lothíriel was dirty, sweaty, thoroughly disreputable and utterly un-queenly. And blast it all, there was no one else he wanted the way he wanted her.

"Will you stop that?" Annaereth snapped, glaring at Lothíriel. All morning long her mistress had been unquenchable, first peppering her with highly personal questions about Léo, then planning a series of escapades she was fortunately too hot to carry out, and finally this nonsense with the bug-swatter. Whether from Anna's sharp tone or the heat, Lothíriel seemed to tire of her game and, after sticking out her tongue, finally subsided.

Grateful for the momentary peace, Anna's thoughts returned to Léo and the startling offer he'd made to her the night before. After everyone had sought their beds, Anna and Léo had sat up beside the dying fire for a very long time, talking and kissing. (Anna admitted in the privacy of her own mind that there really had been more kissing than talking...) When she finally excused herself to go to bed, Léo had taken both her hands and told her...not asked but told her...that he intended to make her his wife.

Anna glanced at her mistress who seemed lost in thoughts of her own and wondered what Lothíriel would do if she knew of Léo's proposal. Anna had been aware for many years that Lothíriel's pranks and attention-getting schemes sprang from a deep well of loneliness within the princess. Lacking a mother, or even sisters close in age, Lothíriel had been raised by governesses and tutors more concerned with raising a perfect princess than in tending to the emotional needs of a growing girl. The princess deeply mistrusted the few girls of her own age station at the court of Dol Amroth; they fawned over her with false kindness to her face and teased her viciously behind her back. Instead, she had chosen to adopt her own maid as her confidante and best friend.

Knowing all that, how was Anna even to consider leaving her lady alone at the strange, highly formal, court of the King at Minas Tirith? A year was not too long a time to spend apart from Léo if it gave her lady peace of mind, was it? But when Anna looked back at Léo, riding tall and fair at the rear of the column, she did not think she could bear to wait that long.

Lothíriel stuck her tongue out at Anna and threw the bundle of marsh grass down on the dusty ground. Absently scratching a bite on the back of her neck, she admitted to herself that Anna had every right to be cranky; she had been plaguing her maid for distraction's sake all day long. It was quite apparent, however, that further teasing would make Anna genuinely angry so Lothíriel had no choice but to subside into the maelstrom of her own thoughts.

When the troop had set out that morning, she had thought to ride beside Éomer, but he had been curt in ordering her to her place at the middle of the column, "where as many eyes as possible will be on you." She had been most confused and had not understood how, when her own lips still burned from the heat of his kisses, he could be so unfeeling. But now Lothíriel glanced at Anna, neatly dressed in a sensible brown riding habit and just as tidy she'd been when she set out that morning, and thought she could guess the answer.

"Father was right," she said to herself. "Why would any man want such a hopeless hoyden as I am?" Her cheeks pinkened as she remembered how she had thrown herself at Éomer and kissed him until he'd finally forced her to stop. Like a wash of cold water down her spine, everything at once became clear. Éomer was avoiding her because he simply wasn't interested. Obviously, he wanted to protect himself from another unseemly attack and spare her the embarrassment of having to reject her publicly.

The tears prickled against her eyelids and she blinked hard, refusing to let them come. She kicked Pasha into a gallop and sped ahead, wanting nothing more at that moment than to reach Minas Tirith and be done with King Éomer.

Éomer was startled from his reverie by the sound of thundering hooves, his hand on his sword before he realized that it was Lothíriel. She was riding faster than she had any right to in such heat and he felt the quick flush of anger that she always seemed to provoke in him. "Come on boy," he said to Firefoot. "I know it's hot, but let's catch that lass and teach her a lesson." Obediently, Firefoot sprang into a gallop and shortly, king and steed caught up with the princess. Éomer leaned over and grabbed the reins from her hands, slowing both horses to a sedate walk.

Predictably, she rounded on him immediately. "Let me go," she demanded, attempting to grab Mallos' reins from Éomer and making both horses prance nervously.

"Not on your life, princess. You just earned yourself the privilege of riding on a lead rein behind me the rest of the way to Minas Tirith." He smiled tightly at her hiss of outrage. "I warned you."

"I won't do it. You have no right!" she cried angrily as he lengthened Mallos' reins and fastened them to Firefoot's bridle.

"You'll do it, or you'll walk," he shot back coldly. "Is it not enough that you almost got Anna killed? Must you also mistreat your horse? Really, princess, your selfishness astounds me."

"How dare you say such a thing?" she shouted, not caring who heard her. "I would never mistreat Mallos and you know it! He wanted to run."

"And you let him, even though you knew it was dangerous for you both. You don't deserve such a loyal animal, princess, if you aren't responsible enough to care for his wellbeing, as well as your own," he replied, leading both horses back to the main cavalry.

"You're just jealous," she spat back, "because you know Mallos is worth three of your horses put together." It was a ridiculous statement and she knew it the instant the words crossed her lips. But pride forbade her to admit it even when Éomer laughed out loud at such blatant audacity. "I'll prove it," she stated brashly. "I'll bet you that on Mallos, I can beat you at a race on any course you decide to set at any time." By that time, the rest of the riders had caught up and were listening avidly, clearly curious how their king would respond to her challenge.

"Oh, really?" was his icy reply. "And what will I get for participating in such an escapade?"

"My obedience," was her immediate answer. "I'll do whatever you say without arguing, all the way to Minas Tirith."

"Obedience? That's a tempting prize indeed." Éomer knew he should refuse to race her. After all, his was the position of power and he could force her to do his will, race or no. But he had never been that kind of leader or that kind of man. "What do you get if you win?"

"Freedom to go where I like and do what I please without your constant supervision," she replied, smiling sweetly.

Éomer glanced around at his men. By their expressions, they clearly expected him to accept her challenge. He slapped his gloves thoughtfully against his thigh weighing his answer. If he declined and simply ordered her to obey him, he risked seeming weak and dictatorial. On the other hand, if he beat her in a race (as I am certain to do, he thought) honor would compel her to obey him. That in itself was worth much.

"I agree," he said, enjoying the whoops of pleasure from his men as much as the startled expression on Lothíriel's face. She had not expected him to agree, the little minx. Well, he would show her who was King and who was not, that was certain. "I think we will race at dawn, when it's cooler. We'll stop in a few hours so that my men may set up a course of my choosing. In the meantime, do behave yourself, princess." And with that bit of condescension, he resumed his place and called for the men to ride on.


	9. Chapter 9

Last Year of the Third Age

The Great West Road

As they rode on towards the highland where they would camp that night, the entire cavalry buzzed with talk of the next morning's race. Men traded wagers (a surprising number favored Lothíriel) and hotly debated the construction of the course. They entertained themselves by dissecting possible routes, arguing about the number of jumps and the distance of the course, and trading theories about what circumstances would favor which rider. It was generally decided that while Firefoot had more endurance, Mallos was the more agile of the two horses.

Éomer smiled to himself, listening to their animated discussion. Aside from a rousing battle, there was little the Rohirrim enjoyed more than racing their horses. Even the threat of rain from the gathering thunderheads in the west did not dampen their enthusiastic discussions.

The storm broke just as the road began to climb into the upland hills. Riders and horses alike were grateful at first for the warm rain that washed away the insects and the dust. But when the soft summer rain became a raging torrent they picked up their pace, eager for the shelter of dry tents. Perversely, just as the last of the tents were erected, the rain tapered off and the late-afternoon sun peeped through the receding clouds.

"Anna?" Lothíriel poked her head into their tent. "I saw a stream nearby and I'm going to bathe. Do you want to come?"

"Thank you for asking, but I think I will stay here and finish setting things to rights." Her maid was busily laying out garments to dry and putting the small space in order. "Please, Lothíriel…for all our sakes, don't go far." Anna's smile took the sting out of her words.

"Just as far as the stream, Anna. I promise." Lothíriel slung her bundle of dry clothes and towels over her shoulder and set off, admiring the sun shining crimson over the vast fields of grain to the west. The sight reminded her of a song she'd heard once, sung by an old, blue-eyed minstrel at her father's court. Glancing around to make sure no one was within hearing, she hummed it tunelessly to herself as she walked.

"_Will you stay with me?_

_Will you be my love,_

_Among the fields of barley?_

_We'll forget the sun_

_In his jealous sky,_

_As we lie in fields of gold."_

She was so intent on trying to stay in tune, admire the sunset, and watch her footing on the rocky bank all at the same time, that she did not hear the splashing coming from the secluded pool. Neither did she notice the clothing, all bearing the symbol of a white horse on a green field, strung about the branches of the concealing trees to dry. In fact, she didn't realize that anyone was there at all until she heard her name spoken in a familiar, mocking drawl.

Startled, Lothíriel looked up and saw Eomer, naked as the day of his birth, bathing quite unconcernedly in the pool. The water came up to his waist and was murky enough to provide at least token modesty, but the rest of him, from his muscular shoulders to his flat, tanned stomach, was quite exposed. When she realized that she was staring at the shimmering droplets of water that clung to the curling hair on his chest, she quickly dropped her gaze. Her rosy blush deepened to scarlet as she heard his deep laughter roll across the water.

"Come to join me in a bath, princess?" he called. "There is a princess under all that dirt, is there not?" He ducked under the water and came up shaking his long mane of golden hair, thoroughly splashing Lothíriel's boots and trousers. He was, she realized, enjoying baiting her and clearly did not expect her to accept his invitation. She, who had had her own bluff called earlier in the day, decided she'd had quite enough of being teased.

"There certainly is, and I intend to waste no time finding her!" She set down her bundle on the bank and kicked off her boots. Watching out of the corner of her eye, she saw Éomer's jaw drop as he realized she was coming in whether he was there or not. Steeling herself, she pulled off her tunic and pants and stood for a moment on the bank, clad only in a thin shift and drawers. Then she dove in, coming up for air shrieking as if every Orc in Mordor was attacking her. "You could have told me it was f-freezing!"

"You'll—" Eomer broke off and had to clear his throat before he could continue. "You'll get used to it," he finished in a barely audible croak. He stood very still in the cold water, knowing both that he should tear his eyes away from the sight before him and that he could not, even if his life depended upon it. Lothíriel's hair, wet and unbound, hung past her waist but still did not cover the fact that what little she wore was turned nearly transparent. Her shift outlined her full breasts and clung tightly to the gentle curve of her waist and hips.

"You d-didn't think I'd d-do it did you?" she asked, shivering and laughing at once. She gathered up her sodden hair and wrung the water from it, revealing herself even more clearly.

"No, I didn't." he said very softly. He moved towards her and damned himself for each of the forward steps he couldn't seem to stop, perilously close to forgetting the stern vows he had made to himself just hours earlier. Drawing within a breath of her, he reached out and plucked a wet leaf from the smooth flesh of her shoulder. Her skin felt cool and he wondered if his palm felt as hot to her as it seemed to him. He could hear her breath quicken as he traced the line that separated the tanned flesh of her throat from the pale, creaminess of her shoulder.

"Why do you tease me so?" she whispered, trembling from more than the cold water.

"Tease you?" He felt light of head, as though he watched himself from afar, as he slid his hand around to cradle the back of her slender neck. "What do you mean?"

"You pushed me away last night." She tipped her head back, letting the ends of her black hair trail in the water. Her eyes were the color of the color of the sea at dusk, her expression a mixture of passion, innocent trust and confusion. "I thought you didn't want me." Her voice was so soft he could barely hear her.

"I think I would have to be dead, princess, not to want you," he replied huskily. He lowered his lips to hers and promptly forgot every doubt he'd entertained and every vow he'd made, drowned as he was in the sweetness of her. She stumbled slightly and he realized that she had been standing upon her toes in order to reach him. Fitting his hands around her waist (she was so tiny that he could nearly span her waist with both hands) he picked her up, thinking to make her more comfortable. He did not expect that she would wrap her legs tightly around him for balance, an action that placed him in a most awkward position indeed.

Even in the cold water, he knew he would not be able to control himself for very long in that position. But when he would have put her down she clung to him, placing feathery kisses along the line of his jaw and nibbling gently on the sensitive flesh of his earlobe. He traced a fiery path with his tongue down her neck to the hollow of her throat, feeling as though he was running headlong towards a great cliff and yet unable to stop himself. He gathered her tightly in his arms, intending to carry her to the riverbank where he could make love to her properly.

"Your majesty?" the reedy voice of his steward called through the trees, freezing Eomer in his tracks. As those two words fell upon his ears, he suddenly felt every drop of the freezing cold water against his skin and heard every one of his objections, vows and doubts thunder freshly in his ears. Abruptly, he released Lothíriel and she tumbled from his arms into the water, coming to her feet sputtering like a drowned cat.

"What was t-that for?" she asked, incredulous.

"For tempting me to do what I should not, princess." He waded out of the water, oblivious to her shocked stare. "Until we meet to race on the morrow, you will stay away from me. Is that clear?" Grabbing his clothes, he stalked off into the trees.

"Bastard," Lothíriel hissed, shivering in the icy water. "I hope you choke to death on my dust."


	10. Chapter 10

Last Year of the Third Age

The Great West Road

The rain washed the oppressive mugginess away and the morning dawned bright and clear, with a refreshing hint of autumn in the air. On the wide plain that had been designated as the race area, men moved busily about constructing jumps at strategic locations. The course was mostly flat and bisected by a shallow stream It sloped upwards on its north side and wound for a short distance through some low hills.

Léo cantered up and saluted to Éomer, who stood on one of those hills observing the proceedings. "All is in readiness, my King." He swung down from Roval, patting his glossy neck affectionately, and continued less formally. "I've been listening to the men, Éomer, and they're putting even money on the girl. Are you sure you want to do this?" He laughed, bright green eyes sparkling with fun, for teasing the king was a privilege only enjoyed by his closest friends. And of course, Léo took advantage of his position as often as possible.

"It's a little late to back down now, is it not?" Éomer replied sourly, trying to tighten the girths on Firefoot's saddle as the huge golden horse nudged him none too gently with his nose. "You're the most spoiled horse in the Mark, so you are," Éomer groused affectionately, indulging Firefoot with the ear-scratching the horse loved.

"You're in a foul mood for a man who shared his bath with a princess last night," Léo said slyly, slapping his friend on the shoulder. "Yes, I know all about it. Anna told me."

Éomer fished in his pockets and came up with a lump of sugar which he offered to Firefoot. The horse crunched it happily, lint and all. "Anna talks too much. Or perhaps not enough if she didn't tell you how things ended up."

"She told me her mistress is none too happy with you," Léo said. "Which I don't understand at all. Didn't you, well…you know? I mean, what could she possibly have to complain about?"

Éomer rolled his blue eyes skyward and asked every ancestor in his lineage for patience. "Perhaps the fact that we didn't 'you know'," he mocked.

"By the Valar, Éomer! You're not going to get a more perfect chance than that. What in blazes are you waiting for?" Leo noticed that the women had emerged from their tent and let his eyes caress Anna's trim form. She was so lovely. A sharp tug on his long, blond braid brought him back to the topic at hand. "What? I'm sorry…I wasn't listening."

"I _said_ try to think with your head Léo, instead of what's between your legs." Éomer paced around the top of the small hill, slapping his gloves against his thigh to emphasize each point. "The girl's a princess. I can't just tumble her like a common maid." He noticed Léo's eyes narrow angrily and rushed to apologize, "I'm sorry, my friend. That came out all wrong."

Luckily for Éomer, Léo had an essentially sunny nature. "No harm done. I know what you meant. And she won't be a 'common maid' much longer, for I mean to marry her, Éomer, and the sooner the better. Which, if you want my opinion, is what you should do."

"Marry Lothíriel? That's insanity, Léo. The girl's no more fit to be a queen than you are. Begging your pardon again." Éomer stopped pacing, realizing what his friend had just told him. "You're going to marry Anna?"

"As soon as I can get her to agree. Don't duck the issue, Éomer. It won't work with me." Léo loved Éomer like a brother, but he was not blind to his friend's faults. And chief among them was his stubbornness. "Lothíriel is bloody perfect for you, you great fool."

"Perfect for me, maybe, but what about my kingdom? Can you imagine her racketing about Meduseld on that great brute of a horse challenging all my guards and advisors to races?" Éomer's eyes found Lothíriel, who was briskly brushing Mallos even though the horse already gleamed in the early morning sun. "No, Léo. She's too young and irresponsible. It would be a disaster."

"The only disaster I see here is your exceedingly depressing shortsightedness." Léo swung back up on Roval. "That girl is in your blood, Éomer, and you'll never get her out. Take my advice: marry her and blast the consequences. She might surprise you. And if she doesn't…at least your life will never be boring."

Less than an hour later the troop, and Anna, were gathered near the racing field listening to Léo give final instructions to Lothíriel and Éomer. "You'll start on my signal. The race will be twice around the course, completing all the jumps. If you miss one, you lose. Don't bump each other _too_ badly and try not to break your necks, please. First one back here wins. Ready?" Lothíriel and Éomer nodded grimly, refusing to look at each other. Léo sighed to himself, knowing that much more was to be settled by the race than whose horse was the faster.

"On my mark…three…two…one…GO!"

A great cheer erupted from the watchers as the two horses sprang from the start and thundered across the flats. Lothíriel and Éomer crouched low over their horses' necks, both to cut the wind resistance and to shout instructions to their animals. A shower of bright droplets spat rainbow sparks in the sun as they splashed across the shallow stream, side by side.

Anna gripped Léo's arm tightly, screaming "Run, Mallos! Move your tail, you misbegotten son of a—" The rest of her words were mercifully lost in the encouraging shouts of the men. Léo laughed out loud, amused that his prim little maid was so caught up in the excitement. Perhaps he'd make a horsewoman of her yet.

The horses sailed over the first jump, an arrangement of fallen logs and dead wood, still side by side. But as they landed, Firefoot stumbled slightly, and Mallos surged past him, taking a generous lead. Éomer swore and dug in his heels. Firefoot obligingly stretched out and ran faster still.

The next section of the course led the horses and riders up an incline into the low hills and Firefoot was well served by his great endurance. By the top, he had drawn even with Mallos once again.

Éomer slapped him gratefully on the neck, allowing himself a quick glance at Lothíriel. She was intent on guiding her horse and did not, or would not, look at him. Her eyes were narrowed in intense concentration as she spoke soft words of encouragement into Mallos's ear. Éomer thought he had never seen anything quite so beautiful as the sight of them—the princess and her horse were perfectly matched in both beauty and skill.

The men whooped and cheered as both horses cleared the third jump and raced past them into the second lap of the course. The race was going exactly as they had predicted. Mallos' agility was evenly matched by Firefoot's endurance and the outcome was far from assured. It was, Léo thought, one of the most exciting races he could remember.

As the horses approached the first jump for the final time, Lothíriel urged Mallos to run faster, wanting to gain as much ground as possible before climbing into the hills where she knew she would fall behind. As she leaned forward to take the jump, she felt something graze her cheek, perhaps a bite from some kind of insect. She flinched at the sting, but managed to maintain her concentration as she guided Mallos over the obstacle.

But as Mallos landed on the other side, Lothíriel suddenly sensed something very wrong. Firefoot and Éomer were no longer beside them. She risked a glance back and immediately pulled hard on Mallos' reins, turning him about, for what she had seen turned her blood to ice.

Firefoot lay writhing on the ground near the approach to the jump, one of his forelegs bent most unnaturally. Éomer lay motionless on the opposite side, clearly thrown from his horse's back, by what means she did not know. Dimly, she saw Léo vault onto Roval, dragging Anna up behind him. Help was on the way, but Lothíriel was terrified that it was too late for both rider and horse.

She was at Éomer's side in an instant, flinging herself from her saddle and kneeling next to him. She laid her head on his chest and sobbed with relief when she realized it still rose and fell. It seemed an eternity before Léo rode up on Roval, Anna clinging to him for dear life.

"Is he…" Léo began, but Lothíriel cut him off.

"He'll be all right, I think. Léo, please do something for that poor horse." Firefoot's shrieks of pain seemed to rouse Éomer, for his eyelids fluttered open and he tried to raise his head. "Hush, my darling…you mustn't move," Lothíriel said, much more calmly than she felt. Léo swallowed hard and disappeared behind the barrier of sticks and logs, his hand ominously on his sword hilt. Anna watched after him, clearly torn between her lover and her mistress. "Go, Anna. He'll need your strength if…Just go." Anna ran after Léo, leaving Lothíriel alone again with the wounded king.

"'Thiri…Firefoot…" he was struggling to get up, hundred of years of instinct guiding him to care for his horse before himself.

Lothíriel grabbed his shoulders and tried to hold him down. "Éomer, listen to me. You hit your head when you fell. You'll be all right, but you have to lie still or you'll…" she jumped quickly out of the way, "…be sick." Thankfully at that instant the men of Éomer's personal guard rode up to help.

Without thinking much about it, Lothíriel calmly began giving them orders. Within minutes, the young king was laid out on a stretcher and water brought from the nearby stream. Lothíriel bathed Éomer's hot forehead with a strip torn from her tunic, soothing him in a tuneless murmur.

Suddenly the guardsmen went silent and Lothíriel realized that she could no longer hear Firefoot's screams of pain. She forced herself to speak calmly to the men around the lump in her throat. "Take him back to the camp. He…he shouldn't be here now."

"No…" Éomer cried hoarsely. "…Firefoot…"

"There's nothing you can do for him now, my king." Léo appeared beside them and his eyes were haunted. He buried his face in Anna's shoulder, shaking, and she held him close, giving him comfort though she was weeping herself.

"No…" Éomer cried again, at last gaining his feet. But as he staggered around the barrier and saw what all had been trying to keep from him, he swayed and would have plummeted once more to the ground, but for Lothíriel who was right beside him.

"Lean on me, my darling…that's the way." She placed her shoulder under his arm and supported him as he knelt down in the dust beside his horse. He knew then with crystal clarity that she would never let him fall, no matter what. But he had no time to dwell on what that might mean, for the sight of his beloved mount pushed all other thoughts from his mind.

The unnatural angle of one of the horse's forelegs and the clean stab wound through his great heart told Éomer exactly what had happened and what Léo had had to do. Éomer squeezed his eyes closed but could not stop the hot tears that traced pale paths down his dusty face. Firefoot who had ridden across all Rohan and Gondor during the war, who had led the charge at Helm's Deep and on the Pellenor, who had been his faithful companion for time out of mind…Firefoot was dead.

Blindly he reached out and was instantly gathered into Lothíriel's soft, slender arms, their gentle strength supporting him as he buried his head in her shoulder and wept.

It was late in the morning before all was calm again. Once he could be persuaded to leave Firefoot's side, the guardsmen carried Éomer back to camp and laid him in his tent. When Lothíriel and Anna were sure he had suffered no more than a bump to the head, a dose of poppy syrup sent the young king into a dreamless sleep. A group of men, led by Léo, volunteered to take care of Firefoot, digging him a grave not far from where he had fallen and piling stones upon it to mark the place. When they were finished, Léo would have sat up with his king, but Anna forcibly removed him from the tent and made him rest as well.

Lothíriel, left alone in the tent, felt her knees begin to shake and had to sit down on the edge of Éomer's bed. It was a fine time to fall apart, she thought, once everything was over. A wave of dizziness assailed her and she curled up beside Éomer, not wanting to leave him alone.

The late afternoon sun slanted through the open tent flap and shone upon Éomer's face. He stirred, feeling an odd weight pinning his right side to the bed. He felt a moment's panic, wondering if he'd done himself some lasting injury in the fall, before he realized that Lothíriel was draped over him. He gathered her sleeping form into his arms and held her close, wondering how he could have been so blind.

How could he have thought that this woman was not fit to be a queen? She had ordered his men around as calmly as any captain and they had obeyed her without question. In fact, she had taken charge of the entire situation as easily as she drew breath. She stirred in his arms, snuggling closer to his side. The scent of pine and grass was in her hair and he breathed it in deeply, letting its sweetness soothe him. He remembered also that she had ordered Léo to see to his horse immediately and was grateful for that instinct, so similar to his own. Her quick thinking had probably saved Firefoot many minutes of suffering.

That made him remember what had happened during the race and his stomach clenched anew. Everything had been fine. They had approached the jump side by side, Lothíriel slightly in the lead. The last thing he remembered clearly was seeing her flinch just as she sailed over the jump, as if stung by an insect. After that, all was a blur. What was clear was that Firefoot had refused to take the jump, and instead had crashed straight into it, throwing Éomer over. Why his battle-trained horse would do such a thing was beyond his comprehension. He knew he was missing something, but the more he tried to think, the fuzzier his head felt until finally all he could do was hold Lothíriel tightly against him and subside back into the blessed oblivion of sleep. Perhaps the morning would bring clearer answers.

_Once again I have failed and the accursed King yet lives. His horse, that I have long coveted for myself, died in his stead. I will have to find another steed as kingly when my time comes. And, by the Valar, my time *will* come._

_I can only hope my part in this is not discovered before I can bespeak my allies in the hills and arrange for more direct action. For I swear that Éomer will not return to Edoras alive._


	11. Chapter 11

Last Year of the Third Age

The Great West Road

Lothíriel stirred sleepily and opened her eyes, slitting them against the sun that shone brightly through the tent flap. She felt oddly disoriented and shook her head to clear the morning cobwebs but something still felt amiss. She dug an elbow into the bedding to lever herself to a sitting position.

"Ouch!" the bedclothes mumbled. Lothíriel shrieked and shot from the bed, backing across the soft flowered carpet that covered the ground beneath the tent. Slowly the mound of blankets resolved themselves into the shape of the king. Naturally, he was laughing at her. "Now that's a romantic way to be awakened, for certain. An elbow in the guts and a scream in the ear. Is that what I have to look forward to, my princess?"

"Look forward to?" Lothíriel answered, still quite sleepy and feeling as though she had missed something of great importance. She nervously smoothed the wrinkled folds of her slept-in tunic and trousers.

"When we're wed, of course." Éomer sat up and stretched and Lothíriel blushed, remembering suddenly that she'd had Léo undress him before putting him to bed the night before. Noting her blush, Éomer looked down and quickly snatched the green woolen blanket across his lap, pinkening slightly himself.

"When we're what?!" Lothíriel's dark eyebrows drew together ominously in a frown that cleared as soon as she remembered what had passed the day before. "Oh! Clearly that knock on the head was worse than I first thought. Don't worry, Éomer, I shall have Anna mix up something right away that will restore you to your right mind in no time."

But rather than looking grateful, the young king actually laughed harder and, wrapping the blanket about his waist, crossed the tent towards her. "Léo was right," he said cryptically. He cupped her chin in his large hand, tipping her head back so that she could do nothing but look him in the eyes. "My life will certainly never be dull."

"You have taken leave of your senses," she said, enunciating each word clearly as if speaking to a small child or perhaps, to an idiot.

"Nay," he said softly. "I have finally come to them, Lothíriel." He put an arm about her waist and drew her to him, kissing her gently on the forehead.

Lothíriel simply stared at him in drop-jawed surprise for a long moment before finally speaking. "Forgive me if I don't instantly melt into your arms," she said sarcastically, wrenching herself from his arms. "I am weary of these advances, Éomer, for they seem always to be followed by you walking away. Of course, if that is what you're considering, I'd put some clothes on first." She was trembling from sheer fury. "So far I've been dumped in a pile of dead leaves and half-drowned in a freezing stream. What had you in mind for me this time, your majesty?"

Éomer wondered wryly why she always seemed to have the advantage when it came to being clothed. Clutching at the wayward blanket, which threatened to slide down his hips at a moment's notice, he tried to explain to her what he had just discovered himself. "Lothíriel, I am beyond sorry for the way I've behaved. It's just that I did not think there was a woman anywhere in this world who could be all I wanted, or needed. Please forgive me that I did not realize right away that you were she."

"I swear I will never walk away from you again, princess." He drew close to her once more, stretching out a hand for her to take if she wished. "I would make you my queen, Lothíriel, and my beloved wife. Will you have me?" His blue eyes caught and held her gray ones which were wide with apprehension and mistrust. Ever so slowly, she reached out a trembling hand to lay in his.

"Your majesty?" Léo's voice rang from outside the tent. Lothíriel snatched her hand back as if burned and fled the tent, ducking under Léo's arm as he entered. He regarded both Éomer and the departing princess with some confusion.

"Blast it all, Léo!" Éomer swore. "You'd better have a good reason for this."

"The best, my king." The First Marshal answered solemnly, arching a brow at his king's state of dishabille. Éomer gathered the blanket, and his dignity, about him and gestured for his Marshal to continue. Léo laid three black-fletched arrows on the low table that Éomer used for writing orders. "These were found at the site where you fell. They're painted to look like orc arrows, but the fletching is to fine for that. They match the ones that were fired at you in the woods four days ago."

Éomer picked up an arrow, turning it over and over in his hands. His memory of Lothíriel flinching as if stung by an insect suddenly made sense, as did Firefoot's startlement and subsequent refusal of the jump. "What are you saying, Léo?" he asked, very afraid he already knew the answer.

"These arrows were fired by someone who knew exactly how to startle one of our horses. Someone who wanted to make it look like an orc attack." Léo continued grimly, "Someone…one of our own people…who wanted you dead, my king."

Éomer continued to turn the arrow round and about in his hands. "Twice this person has attempted my life. He has killed my horse and endangered my princess…who will be my queen." He snapped the arrow in half, casting the shards upon the carpet. "This will not stand! Assemble the men, Léo. I will question them and, by the Valar, I will find who did this. And when I do, I will spit his head upon my pike as a warning to any fool who would ever dare try such a thing again."

"I would counsel you to patience, my King," replied Léo formally. He was counselor now, above and beside friend. He had rarely seen Éomer in such a rage and knew that his king needed to hear his cool advice. "This person does not know that he has been found out. If we raise the alarm, he could disappear and you would still be in grave danger. Let us be doubly on our guard and we will catch him more easily."

Éomer paced the tent, muttering furiously under his breath. "I see the sense in what you suggest, Léo, but it galls me to hide behind my guards like a boy behind his mother's skirts. And how do I know they are loyal?"

"You and I picked your personal guard ourselves, Éomer, from men who went to the wars with us. Remember? I do not think you need to mistrust them. But there are others among the company who bear watching, not the least of them that young upstart Endros whose father hates you so." Léo laid a comforting hand on Éomer's shoulder. "Please, my king, let me deal with this. I swear the fiend shall not escape."

"Very well, my friend, do as you will. Only be sure Lothíriel is guarded as well. I could not bear for anything to happen to her."

If Léo was surprised by his friend's change of heart regarding the princess, he didn't show it. "Judging by the look on her face when she ran out of here, you might need protection from her as well, Éomer," he teased lightly, lifting the tent flap. "Oh, and Éomer?"

"What else is there, Léo?"

"If you've a mind to question anyone, I'd put some clothes on first. You parted company with that blanket about five minutes ago." He exited the tent laughing and ducking the boot that flew at his blond head.


	12. Chapter 12

Once clad and with a few extra weapons tucked about his person, Éomer set off to inspect the cavalry and prepare for the morning's muster. He nearly called for a groom to bring Firefoot around when he remembered his horse's fate. Swearing softly, he called to his steward. "Aldor? Where are you?"

As usual, the man appeared silently at his elbow. Éomer wondered where the man hid himself that he could appear so conveniently. "Yes, your majesty?"

"Ah, there you are. Good man. Saddle one of the extra horses with my gear, would you? I care not which one." Truthfully he did care...he wanted his horse back, but that was not to be. One of the extras bound for the Minas Tirith guard would have to do until a more suitable mount could be found. Éomer grimaced, thinking of the hours of loving care that had gone into Firefoot's training. He was mentally strangling his unknown assailant once more when Aldor again appeared at his side.

"Your grace, I can't find your tack. It's all missing." Aldor said worriedly. He reminded Éomer of a rabbit, with his nervous twitching.

"What do you mean, missing? These things don't just get up and walk away," Éomer snapped more sharply than he meant to. "Were you not keeping track of it?"

"He was, your majesty, but I took it when he wasn't paying attention. Here it is...along with your new mount." Éomer turned at the sound of Lothíriel's voice, ready to deliver a stinging reprimand. But it died on his lips as he saw that she was leading Mallos who was caparisoned in the green and white of Rohan and bearing Éomer's own saddle and tack.

"Will that be all then, your majesty?" asked Aldor.

"Yes, yes...that will be all." Éomer dismissed his steward with an impatient wave and took Lothíriel's hands, and Mallos' reins, in his. "Princess, you can't mean this."

"I do," she said firmly, though her voice shook slightly. "If it hadn't been for my insistence on that silly race, you would still have your horse. So you shall now have mine."

"It wasn't your fault, Lothíriel."

"Please, Éomer, let me do this. I want you to have him," she insisted.

"Very well, princess. But when you come home with me to Meduseld and I train up a replacement, you shall have him back." He touched her cheek with a gloved fingertip, but she pulled away. "You will come home with me, will you not?"

"I-I don't know. I need some time to think." She thrust the reins into his hands and slipped away between the tents before he could pursue her. He cursed himself once again for mishandling the situation so badly. She was young and sheltered and he had hurt her badly, if inadvertently. Now she was afraid to trust him.

"I didn't even offer her a proper proposal," he muttered to Mallos, absently stroking the horse's silky nose. "I'm a stupid man." Pasha whickered in agreement and Éomer laughed. "You are her horse, that's for certain. And what kind of name is Mallos for a king's mount? I refuse to call you after some Elvish flower." Éomer swung easily into the saddle, noting that Mallos was slightly smaller than Firefoot. He compensated for the difference almost unconsciously. "Come then, _mearh_, let's be off."

Lothíriel was packing the last of her clothing in her saddlebags when she heard the tent flap rustle behind her. "Anna?" she queried. "Can you help me with this confounded thing? I can't get it closed." The sound of a masculine throat being cleared made her turn around. "Who-oh, Aldor. Did you need something?"

The steward shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. "I don't know how to tell you, my lady," he said in his trembling, nervous voice.

"What? Blazes, man, speak up!" Lothíriel was suddenly filled with a nameless dread.

"The king has been injured, princess, riding your horse. I thought I should tell you before word reached you from other means. 'Tis most grievous."

The color drained immediately from Lothíriel's face. "Injured? How? Where?"

"He was riding in the hills, trying out your horse's paces I guess. My lady, will you come? He's asking for you." The words had barely left his lips when she was out of the tent, climbing upon the dainty gray that had been saddled for her.

"Where?" she asked tersely, her head spinning. If anything happened to him she could never forgive herself. She had offered him the gift of her horse in all good faith, and now that gesture had harmed him. Could she do nothing right?

"North into the hills, my lady. Follow the road. I will be right behind you." Aldor watched as Lothíriel kicked her horse into motion, smiling slightly. "Right behind you..." he said again, the high and whining tone gone from his suddenly deep, smooth voice.

Lothíriel urged her mare into a flat-out run, wishing for Mallos' superior speed even as she cursed him for whatever harm had come to Éomer. She wished with her whole soul that she had told Éomer what was in her heart that morning, instead of running from him like a frightened little girl. Now she might never have the chance to tell him how much she wanted to be his wife and queen.

She was so lost in her thoughts that she did not notice the approaching riders until they were upon her. Four non-descript brown horses with dark-hooded riders flanked her and forced her to a stop before she could even begin to wonder who they were. "What do you mean by this," she demanded. "Who are you that you keep me from riding to my king? Let me pass." The only answer she received was mocking laughter as one of the hooded figures pulled her struggling from the mare onto his horse. She kicked and tried to scream, but he stuffed a dirty rag in her mouth.

"One more move from you princess and I will spit your precious King while you watch," her mysterious captor growled menacingly. Lothíriel ceased struggling immediately and concentrated instead on holding on for dear life as the brown horse sped away. She tried to keep track of direction but, draped as she was upside down across the saddle, she soon lost her way. Her captors were muttering to themselves. She knew not which voice belonged to whom for all were unfamiliar to her.

"Are you sure he'll come after her?"

"I heard him this morning asking her to return to Meduseld with him. He loves her, the stupid bastard. Aye, when my man tells him that she's gone, he'll come for her."

"Then we kill him?"

"Not before we take turns with his precious princess before his eyes. Then perhaps I shall beat him bloody until he begs for mercy. After that, perhaps I'll grant him his death, yes."

Lothíriel felt sick horror course through her with each icy word out of her captor's mouth. She had blundered into a trap set by one who clearly understood her impulsive nature. Why had she not sought Anna or Léo and told them before riding off to who knows where? Every step of the horse's hooves on the rocky ground sent a painful jolt through her body but when she attempted to wiggle into a more comfortable position, her captor struck her viciously across the back with his crop. "You will be still, princess, if you want to see your king alive again."

"Oh, Éomer," pleaded Lothíriel silently. "Please be safe my love, wherever you are, and don't come after me. Please, don't come after me..."

"Is all in readiness, Endros?" Éomer inquired of his youngest rider.

"Y-yes, your majesty." The boy's voice broke nervously and Éomer looked at him curiously. Great beads of sweat stood out upon the boy's brow and his hands trembled as they held Mallos' reins.

"Is there something amiss, boy?"

"I'm sorry, you majesty, but the princess is missing. She rode off a little while ago and hasn't been seen since. I-I thought you would want to know."

Éomer's temper, frayed to the breaking point by hidden assassins, murdered horses and wayward princesses, snapped. "Blast the girl into eternity! I am tired unto death of her nonsense. Endros, tell Léo that I've gone to teach a certain princess a lesson and to ride ahead without me."

"Yes, your majesty." But as the king rode away, the boy did not move.


	13. Chapter 13

Last Year of the Third Age

The Great West Road

Éomer reined Pasha to a halt at a crossing in the road and slid from his back, looking for tracks. All the horses of the Mark were shod so that their hooves left very distinctive patterns. He was puzzled to find those patterns mixed in with the marks of commonly shod horses. Clearly Lothíriel had ridden this way in company with at least four other riders. He bent down to examine the tracks more closely, noting that the Mark horse left very light tracks, as though she bore little or no weight. By contrast, one of the common horses left imprints somewhat deeper indicating that it bore a heavier load.

The blood nearly froze in his veins as he realized that Lothíriel, whatever her reason had been for leaving the camp alone, had been taken from her horse against her will. He debated going back to seek Léo's help but he feared losing the trail. So he followed the trail signs as fast as he dared, hoping with all his heart he would reach her before any harm befell her.

Her captor dumped Lothíriel unceremoniously to the ground and then dragged her by her long braids, leading her stumbling into a dank cave. Casually he flung her against the hard rock wall, against which she huddled miserably with her knees drawn up to her chest. He pulled the gag roughly from her mouth and thrust a skin of water into her hands. She drank greedily but managed only a few sips before the skin was yanked once more from her grasp. She licked at the spilled water on her hands, trying to ignore his mocking laughter.

"It is a sad thing to be deprived, isn't it princess? So has my life been…licking at the crumbs when I should have been given the whole loaf on a silver tray." Her captor mocked, throwing back his hood.

"You!" Lothíriel exclaimed.

"Yes, it is I, princess," said Aldor. "The King's loyal steward." His voice quavered nervously as he mocked what he once had been. "But today he shall recognize me as his kinsman and heir before he goes to his death. Your presence here will ensure that." Aldor pulled a wicked-looking knife from a sheath at his waist and waved it in her direction. "Yes, I think a few well-placed slices upon his beloved will put our young king exactly where I want him."

Lothíriel cringed back against the wall because she thought it was what the madman expected of her, but her eyes raked the cave, searching in vain for a way to escape or at least to warn Éomer when he came. For she realized that he would always come for her, no matter what. The thought warmed her even through the cold dampness of the cave. "You say you are my king's kinsman. By what right to you claim that relationship?" she demanded, trying to sound frightened. In truth, it was anger that surged through her and an abiding need to get away before Éomer arrived and put himself in deadly danger.

"You will regret your arrogance before this day is over, princess." Aldor's eyes swept over Lothíriel and their expression chilled her to the bone. "But I see no harm in telling you that am the grandson of Thengel. My _grandfather_," Aldor spat the word bitterly, "never bothered to learn whether my grandmother bore a child before he cast her aside for that bitch from Lossarnach. My father, who died of bitterness that such mongrels as Morwen's get should rule in the Golden Hall. But it is no matter. For neither my father nor my nephews will rule at Meduseld. For I—I who have cringed and scurried for all these years behind the Kings of the Mark—I will be king in their stead!"

"You will never succeed," Lothíriel sneered, angered that he would threaten Éomer so openly. "You're a just mad little man with very big delusions," she taunted him. Perhaps she could provoke him enough that he would make a mistake in his anger, allowing her to escape. Unfortunately, she underestimated the strength of his hatred, so carefully nursed over the years.

Aldor grabbed her braids, yanking her painfully to her feet and slamming her into the wall, face-first. He pressed his body to hers, grinding most intimately against her. "And who will stop me, little princess?"

"I will." Lothíriel sobbed in relief and fear both as the familiar, deep voice resounded within the cave. Éomer stood in the entrance with his sword in hand, a king made of molten gold, backlit by the morning sun. Lothíriel thought she had never seen anything both so beautiful and so frightening in her life. "Let the princess go and we shall settle this as men. You are a man, are you not?" he mocked.

"My manhood is not in question here, _your majesty_." Aldor's voice was contemptuous. "Even if it were, I am not so stupid as to enter a contest of arms with you. No, you shall do as I say or the princess will die before your eyes." He pressed his knife against Lothíriel's throat and whistled, clearly some kind of signal.

"Éomer, behind y—" Lothíriel's warning was cut short as Aldor tightened the knife to her throat, drawing a thin rivulet of blood. Éomer had only begun to turn when the cudgel descended upon his head, knocking him into unconsciousness for the second time in two days.

When he woke, Éomer found he was bound tightly and lay with his head in Lothíriel's lap. Though her hands were also bound, still she stroked the blond hair from his brow as she murmured to him under her breath. "Welcome back, my darling. Can you sit up?" Working together, they were able to lever him into a sitting position beside her.

"How do you fare, love?" he asked hoarsely, for he was terribly thirsty. He looked around, noting that they were quite alone in the small cave.

"All the better, hearing you call me so," she replied, smiling softly. "I feared you would not be so charitable, considering the mess I've gotten us into." She snuggled as close to him as their bonds would allow.

He placed an awkward kiss on the crown of her head. "I share the blame with you, princess. I, too, left the camp without telling anyone where I was bound."

"Well, we shall have to get out of this together, shall we not?" Lothíriel said lightly, though her dark brows were drawn together in a worried frown. Her courage warmed him even more than the heat of her body.

They sat like that for several long moments, and when at last Éomer spoke again it was to say, almost shyly, "This hardly seems the place to speak of it, Lothíriel, but I'm sorry that I didn't offer you a proper proposal."

Her laughter rang like small bells in the gloom. "It was lovely, Éomer. It is I who should be sorry that I did not tell you right away what was in my heart." She shifted with some difficulty and faced him so that she could look into his eyes. "I would like nothing more than to be your wife and queen, if you still want me. For I believe that, in spite of myself, I have quite fallen in love with you, my king."

"And I with you, my princess…nay…my queen." Éomer barely brushed her lips with his when the sound of clapping resounded through the cave.

"How very touching," Aldor said, entering the cave followed by four hideous orcs. "I'd like you to meet my allies, Éomer. They weren't my first choice, I'll admit, but one does what one must, I'm afraid." He yanked Lothíriel to her feet and shoved her toward the orcs who surrounded her immediately, drooling and laying their filthy hands upon her. "One move, boy, and I give her to them. You understand my meaning? Good." Aldor cut the ropes that bound Éomer's wrists and threw a parchment down in front of him. "That is official recognition that I am your heir. You will sign that and then I will kill you."

"Given that outcome, why should I oblige you at all?" Éomer knew with a sick surety what the answer would be, but he asked anyway to buy time.

"Because if you do not I will tell my 'friends' that they may use your little princess however they will until she dies of it." Aldor dropped a quill beside the rolled parchment.

"Éomer, no!" Lothíriel shouted as she saw him reach for the quill. "You must not do it! I'm not important…your kingdom is!" If Éomer had entertained any lingering doubts about her fitness to rule Rohan alongside him, they were cast aside by her words. Slowly, he put quill to paper, scratching out his name and titles.

Aldor snatched up the parchment, laughing insanely as he rebound Éomer's hands. "You may proceed, my friends," he called, once he was certain the young king was tightly bound.

"NO!" Éomer cried, struggling vainly against his bonds. Lothíriel screamed then and did not stop. Her piercing shrieks of terror rang in his ears for long moments after the orcs bore her from the cave then stopped abruptly.

"Now, you will die the death I have long planned for you, boy." Aldor advanced upon Éomer, knife drawn.

"Think you that my people will follow a madman?" Éomer spat, beyond caring if he lived or died.

"It matters not whether they will or no, once my allies arrive from the hills to keep them in line. Your people…_my _people will do as I say or they will die. As you will…" Aldor stepped closer to Éomer, who kicked out with both feet and knocked Aldor to the ground. The madman snarled insanely and lunged at Éomer, who barely managed to get his roped wrists between the knife and his throat.

The adversaries remained locked in that position for many long moments, but the smaller man had the advantage of leverage and gravity and slowly his blade drew ever closer to the young king's neck. Éomer closed his eyes and the pain of knowing that Lothíriel was gone made him welcome the death stroke he knew was coming.

But suddenly, Aldor fell limply upon him and when Éomer's eyes opened again he saw that three black-fletched orc-arrows protruded from his former steward's back. A strong hand grabbed the corpse by the collar, casting it away from the king and there stood Léo, bow in hand, looking vastly relieved. "Thank the Valar! I thought I'd come to late." He helped Éomer to his feet and cut his bonds.

"Lothíriel!" Éomer bolted from the cave and was immediately blinded by the noonday sun. "Princess?"

"Éomer," a sweet voice cried and he thought he'd never heard such a lovely sound. "Oh, my darling, I thought you dead for certain!" Lothíriel flung herself into his arms, nearly knocking the breath from his body.

"I'm harder to kill than you might imagine, princess." He swept her up in his arms and kissed her until they were both gasping for breath. Léo's laughter finally caught their attention.

"If I might interrupt, your majesty…"

"Léo! How can I thank you, my friend?" Éomer exclaimed. "And how in the world did you find us?"

"Endros sought me out just after you left and confessed everything. Seems Aldor had offered him a high post in his government or some such thing. But the boy's heart was too good, Éomer. I hope you won't punish him too severely." Léo whistled and Éomer's personal guard materialized, leading Mallos and Lothíriel's gray. "Shall we ride, your majesty? I believe we have a delivery to make."

"We shall ride, Léo, but I'm afraid the King and Queen of Gondor will have to settle for only half of what they're expecting. For this princess is coming home with me." Shunning the dainty gray, he lifted Lothíriel into Mallos's saddle and swung up behind her.

"You're going to have to find a new name to call me, once we're wed," Lothíriel teased.

"Queen you may be in title, my love, but you will always be my princess." He tightened his arms about her and whistled to Pasha who obediently bore them down the road to Gondor.

***The End***


	14. Epilogue

**First Year of the Fourth Age**

"Why do they not come out of there, Léo, and tell me what's going on?" Éomer paced anxiously back and forth along a soft, flowered carpet that rested before a closed pine door. It was one of the comforts Lothíriel had insisted upon as she had worked to turn the drafty palace into their home. He thought obscurely that she would be most put out with him for wearing a path in it and stopped pacing, staring at the door as if he could command it open with his eyes.

"Anna said she would come out when there was something to tell," Léo soothed. "Did I tell you about the new colt?" he said, thinking to distract his friend. "He's Mallos' first from one of our stock-a beautiful little gold fellow with a night-black mane. I should have him trained up for you within a year or two."

Éomer smiled. "It will certainly please Lothíriel, to have her horse-" the words died on his lips as the pine door swung open and Anna emerged, looking tired. When she saw the King, she smiled brightly. "Well?" he demanded eagerly.

"It's a boy, with the most beautiful head of golden hair I've ever seen, your grace." Éomer's shout of triumph could be heard clear to the stables. He picked Anna up and swung her around, kissing her soundly. When she was allowed to breathe again, she said, "You can go in now. She's asking for you."

"Did you hear that, Léo? I have a son. A son!" Éomer exclaimed as though he was the first man ever to accomplish such a feat.

Léo laughed and pushed him towards the open door, for Éomer seemed not to know what to do next. "Congratulations, my friend. Now go to your queen and your little prince." After seeing the king through into the room, Léo closed the door softly behind him. "Do you suppose I shall be that silly, love?" he asked, gathering Anna into his arms.

"Of course not," Anna replied, one hand on her barely rounded stomach, the other drawing her husband down for a kiss. "You will be sillier."

******

Éomer tiptoed into the dimly lit room, not wishing to disturb Lothíriel, should she be sleeping. But she was not, and her soft voice beckoned him closer. "It's all right, my darling. Come see our son." He perched his large frame awkwardly upon the edge of the bed beside his very tired queen and peered curiously at the blanket wrapped bundle by her side.

"You cannot get a good look at him that way, silly man. Here, hold him." Before he could protest, Lothíriel placed the squirming bundle in his arms. Éomer caught the barest glimpse of blond fuzz above a face shaped just like Lothíriel's before his eyes filled with joyful tears. "We work together well, my husband, do we not?" she asked proudly.

"That we do, princess." He replied, stroking the silky cheek of the tiny boy who would be King after him. "That we do."


End file.
